Slowly dying,
stories of her past
hide in the wrinkles of her skin.
stories,
told and not told,
Brought to the brim of light blue eyes;
searching,
talking to her mother
who died before the Berlin Wall.
"The black birds are coming."
But not soon enough.
Shaking suffering,
not able to speak.
Skin like paper,
but having to be tough.
Surviving five wars,
and numerous gas prices,
and elections of presidents.
And now as the clock ticks
she sleeps.
And slips slowly away
into what I believe is Heaven.