Lady in Mauve


There is a little hunched over lady, in the corner by the fire.
She reads her mail. She's dressed in mauve.
I try not to think of her, or of the old-the frail.

Caved in;
She is elegant and fragile,
Like a kingdom left to fossilize.
A castle crumbling into its foundation.
But she's happy.

Like an oak uprooted, a dried river bed;
There's a quiet to her, an eerie still.
A fog clouds her head.
But she's happy.

Her breath shallow as a pond;
Her skin ripples like a disturbed pool.
A representation of decay,
Yet of renewal.
And she's happy.

Maybe it's the fear of growing old or growing up.
I hate to think of how I'll feel at thirty.
I worry about being happy.
I'm wary of growth.
I am scared to become the lady in mauve.

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