those short years

i see the frail woman

in my half

sleep

straddling  dream

and awake.

i see the bones of her,

her hollow face.

her tongue, black with

lies,

the brittle hair

a curtain

of old lace.

i see the eyes, dark

troubled orbs,

full of fear.

i see her for who she really

is,

not who she pretended

to be,

for those short years.