Through those tortuous long-meandering years
She had harvested nothing from her ripe age
But merely amber some bags of chaff of futility
Poignant memories which are souvenirs to themselves
Long dead spouse
Long lost offspring
The sharp horns of melancholy which had
Doggedly gored her heart for years
The horns to which had been stoically inured
Dismal death of tears in her tears reservoirs
Remorseful for gallons of tears she had wasted
The tears which ought to be utilised to clean
The muddled heaps of grime and puddles of sewage
Of sorrow inside the dark caves of her heart
For years now, she has been anticipating in vain
With a slight ray of hope
To meet something prodigious along this longevity
Which only sired scorn
Yet striking nothing but ashes of bygone years
Wasn’t she a seraph in the days of yore?
Where are those heavy swaying hips?
Where are those spontaneous malleable dimples?
Where is that fire slippery flowing skin?
Where is that angelic outer visage like a fresh apple?
Where is that riotous guffaw that triggered seminal tremors?
Where are those halcyon day of youthfulness
When she was still in vogue?
Wasn’t she the goddess of beauty?
Yet been metamorphosed to a wrecked dilapidate quaint hag by elements of time
Now old, widowed and indigent
Her palms, gnarled purple leather
A simian face, wizened and corrugated
Toothless, where are those milk-hued glacial teeth
Which could easily rend a biltong
Now eyes, like buttonholes, blinking with a teeny vistage of romance
The python of age, crashing and coiling around her
With every sun and every moon that passes by
Bask idly in the monotonous sun
Waiting for kites of doom
To swoop down and snatch you
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time
Whilst eroded by age