Her abandonment was absolute,
eyes vacant and glassy,
windows to an echoing room of emptiness.
Her forehead sagged like an unrepaired ceiling with frowns and wrinkles;
she had fingers the colour of old whitewash.
Her hair sighed like old wood in a breeze,
the scars on her arms like rusted nails on ply.
Her heart creaked and ached with old timber;
an old soul, filled with sawdust and ash.

Soon enough
she would rot and collapse
to the earth,
weighed down by disrepair and neglect;
she would never find the strength
to get up
and be filled again
with children’s laughter.

Never to be called home again,
just the broken remains of a tomb,
irreparably
and completely
forgotten.