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A Tale From The Cinders Of Ella.

Updated on January 3, 2010

A Tale From The Cinders Of Ella.


" No fairy Godmother, only perhaps the mother of God to pray to when one gets old."




yet she dances
over to the mirror,
because he'll
be here soon
to take her
for a long walk
in the moonlight.

She slips into her
most elegant crystal
glass beaded shoes,
a pair of wrinkled,
soiled peds
beside her bed

She applies a bright
ruby sheen to
her full lips,
yet the chap-stick
comes out clear
upon the cracked,
dry, food stained
flesh protrusions
over her wrinkled maw.

She strokes her
l o n g eyelashes
with ebony to highlight
her pale blue eyes,
each still holding onto
the dreams of youth.

Sadly, it is only her
arthritic fingers
pulling at the
sticky residues of
too much sleep and meds.

The mirror holds
an addled reflection
of what she was
and will be no more.

But her weak
cataract eyes
refuse to see
the real truth.

Thus her bald head
gleams in the sharp
fluorescent light as,
the aging woman
combs her hair.




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