Smiling, she twidleds the thread in her hand
And wonders why life is always too short
Wonders why it always ends too fast and the good parts
you realize, don't come until the end.
The thread is the color of blood, and fits so nicely
around her finger, which is smooth like leather
Wrinkled from hard times and tough decisions.
She knows it was hard but worth it.
The eye behind glass twinkles with amazement
the child within is laughing to her own song
and the dance done a thousand times
looks as beautiful as the first.
There was no glory, no kind words to give out
that she had been once a beautiful girl
Lovely eyelashes hide away tears that came too hard
On her soft cheeks of rough rogue.
To those who knew her she was what everyone wanted yet
Could never be themselves
Someone's wife, lover, friend, child.
Cared where they by her warm arms.
Looking at her now, you would automactically wonder
about who she was and how she became into being
ask, and she won't tell. Just laugh and giggle
about good ol'days and how it use to be
The thread is now thinning and so are
the smiles.
It's ends are loose, and the color is growing dull
fine lines are mushed together as people join with their
tears in hand
walking up the aisle, the faces are depressed and sadden
looking into the eyes of her.
Lifeless and gone.
Cold and pain.
Dead inside.
The thread has been cut.