Anne

                                                                     Ann

 

Sitting, surrounded by sacred clutter,

A gaunt and raisin skinned Raggedy Ann.

speaks a mystical language of her own design,

To no one in particular.

 

Chatoyant green eyes, medusa’s  hair.

Body of a withered ballerina,

Once was strong and graceful

Her life blood long since drained.

 

Now her stark universe had been reduced,

To twelve square feet of cold, hard concrete

Perfumed by urine, and forty years of sweat.

She’s forty going on eighty.

 

From time to time, blue and green haired angels

Hearts on their arms and love in their smiles.

Descend with sustenance and kind words.

Nectar and mana from above, 

 

Finally, Ann was off to the promised land.

Whisked away by heroes in blue and gold.

A noisy red box, her chariot, a light show to boot.

Free from the demons that haunted her.

 

No one there to shed a tear

Who will mourn or say a psalm for Ann?

Beneath an unmarked stone, lonely in the cold.

You are gone, but not forgotten.