My Mother Spent, creased skin
Spills over eyes that
See no more the intensity
Of her youth.
Memory
Shot of all sense, she cannot hear
The cicadas sing, smell the sweet
African spring.
Is Mozart will never revisit in her voice,
Chopin or Liszt in her fingers.
Fire no more a child's emotion,
Feed the hunger for all the world's
Sad joys.

Dying. A dry death, void of passion.
Filled with guilt
And
Catharsis.