The house was made of wood and mold,
The floor of dust and timber,
She lived in it as she grew old,
But she stayed limber
By bending back into the years
Of power and of glory;
Between what’s felt and what appears
Lives every story —
Within the heart that reaches out,
Within the graying eyes,
Come all the truths that conquer doubt,
Though they be lies —
She lived behind a wire fence
Beside an open sewer,
A story lost to time and sense,
Except for those
Who knew her
Lost Stories (1)
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