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Framed by the last rays of sunset
that fell like discarded orange blossoms
around her, over her,
she sits in a corner,
hidden among faded family photos.
White hair cascading
like a waterfall of memories,
her face a canvas for stories.
She writes,
allowing her pen to dance on paper.
For today, for a time ….
Her pen twirls,
with the grace of a dancer.
Each step leaves behind
a telltale permanent mark —
disturbing the stark still surface
darkening like a bleeding wound
that cannot be erased.
Bursting painfully
gushing openly
like a broken dam.
Pouring out
rushing forth
unrestrained crimson tears,
the sum total of censored years.
But for now, for today …
she allows it to flow,
until the ink dries over
and it disappears …
in the empty space
along the in-between lines
of a faraway forever.

Photo. Woman Writing Letter. http://www.flickriver.com