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At The Age of Wisdom

At The Age of Wisdom

1 min
6.6K


Hair as silver as Dumbeldore's beard

The bags under her eyes as droopy

As her skin's many hanging layers.

The distressed lines on her forehead

Take nothing away

From that ethereal exterior.


Her wisdom overflows in her bones

Soft and gentle

From years of being strong.

Her clothes loose around

Her fragile human sack,

Which once fit her

perfectly around every curve.


The chic saree clad woman on the shelf,

Smiles red in the black and white world;

Her eyes,

Northern stars in the black sky.


She looks up too often

Squinting for the light,

Her wrinkled eyes

Are too tired to find.


Often she winces aloud,

Proclaiming to God

She'll die.

Not sure if God agrees

'Cause at ninety five.

She is still alive.


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