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Rated: E · Poetry · Spiritual · #1154212
Passing time with the woman who filled me with a lifetime of inspiration.
Heaven Cures Her Soul

In wasted burgundy gown,
Mother wears a lovely frown.
Lilies roost in sunlit porch
that summers love soon will scorch.

Upon the bruised horizon,
Monday's tide is rising.
Through her window she will see;
realize life's dreams for me.

Shadowed Tuesday, fading gray,
on her Scrabble board we play.
Beams of yellow burst my eyes.
Mother doesn't see the skies.

Wednesday lights the lamp again,
her puzzle pieces falling in.
Golden mirrored walls aglow.
It's half way to her time to go.

Streaking sunlight hides in dusk,
as we harvest dreams to husk.
Intersecting words connect
on crossword pages she'd collect

Friday's dirge laments at last.
She's separating from our past.
Purple, standing in the light,
Heaven cures her soul tonight.

Alone, I pass the final day,
longing for some game to play.
The passing dream flies to night.
Mother bathes in pearls of white.

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