History is written in the lines on her face.
Fingers, hands, once so strong, now only show the age that has erupted upon her sad and brittle frame.
I remember her glow. I remember it fondly.
She was a goddess, to me.
I guess she still is, to me.
Hope not withstanding, there is little left of her memory amongst the masses clamoring for those last scraps of something, anything.
She was the one who perfected those methods.
She is sick, hidden in the dark of that rarely seen back room.
Tears and pain and smuggled booze bottles just to curb the shakes.
A last year, ten months, watching the skin suffer.
Like old leather, her stories end in abject horror.
I read them in the stars. They are written across the sky.
Back at home, soul shattered silence.
When sitting in the dark, surrounded by the ones we love, there will forever be a missing piece.
Mom, you were strength incarnate.
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