A mournful gaze upon a world gone grey.

Life and color have faded; worn away,

only witnessed by the last living gaze.

The last colors linger there on her worn frame,

tired is she with the weight of the years.

Joys she has seen, yes, joys–but sorrows to;

she is witness to all upon her post.

Each crease of her brow and fold of her dress,

every piece of her faded countenance,

tells of a life and many years well spent.

For that I am eternally grateful,

in moments that I feel time slipping by.

For a life is never truly mournful,

if the colors fade having been well spent.


One thought on “The Mournful

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