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She sits,
tense and uncomfortable, serious lines on her face
from the thoughts stampeding through her mind.
Tensely still,
a silent cough echoes as she stands,
watery eyes drowning in the sorrows
of her deeper self image.
No longer in bloom of youth
this faded lily wilts
in the day of life,
shrinking daily from
the girl of yesterday.
Who is she?
Whose daughter, sister, wife, mother or grandmother?
Who knows her?
Not I.
She is just a face
sitting across from me
in a waiting room.
But I hope somebody loves her.
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