Hour Glass



Alone sits a lady with a past.

Her face worn, etched with many seasons.



Who is she?

Why should we care?



For a lady, living a life of despair.

Once told that the old is wisdom,

Never to disrespect



To move forward, one must go back.

Her “hour glass” it’s nearly empty.

Where is the empathy?



For a lady who has lived almost ten scores.

A treasured antique with much poise, a lady indeed, with no discords



Now, she sits alone,

Leafing through an album filled with old photographs.

A smile appears as she reflects.



The photographs were familiar reminders; the times from her past.

Ah, people who “knew”, this fine lady at last.