The Widow

The widow’s brush lays on her dresser,
strands of silver hair
caught between the bristles.
How long since she glanced in the cracked mirror?
Her face, etched with wrinkles,
evidence of a love long lost,
and a life half wasted.

Dust hangs over the photographs
protected in silver frames.
The smiling faces behind them
are obscured by the shroud,
erased, in sense, by time,
and sadness.

Her heavy heart, too much to bear.
She barely stands and her knees
wobble together, the ache
in her chest crippling
and every step
is too much to ask.

How much longer
can she go on?
The frown on her thin lips
and her shaking hands
remind her forever
of the person she
can never again be.

she was loved.