Another Ode to the Woman of Dust
Anne, I have not written you
As of late, I grow to fear
Your mesmerizing dark.
Too late now, to save you
Why should I try?
Your throat has dissolved
Leaving ash and dirt that
Bears no small mark of blood.
Your hands have long ceased
To pray. Your tomb is faint
And nondescript, but isn't that
As it should be?
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