Sentinel

The old woman not rues loss of yesteryears Crumbled though her wrinkles still break in cheers Her lips parched long dried up her eyes But if you look close they hold residues of sunrise. In festive times her folks light her peeling skin Burn on her candles ornate her within Revived she feels in the glow of a cobwebbed blush She turns a petite feminine splendid gorgeous. But like her past glory they soon in time fade She grows still older more in years decayed Staunchly holds ground with the memory of bygone Knowing when the end comes nobody would mourn.