An Old Woman’s Portrait

She always wears a milky rose
In her ash hair
A bit out of place

She always swims
In her linen dress
A bit too pale
For her complexion

She always paints her nails
A bit too violent
When she combs her hair
With her ghostly white fingers

The thorns bleeds beauty
Onto her waxy canvas
Leaves a trail of
Dried out tears

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