Her hair fell down in ringlets
burned from years of bleaching,
with grey roots and platinum tips
Stringy, greasy, and thinning.
She sat alone for far too long.
They said that she'd gone mad.
If she would've ever talked to them,
they'd have never known she had.
Her home was filled with cobwebs;
strange and scary to the eye.
She sat upstairs in the dark,
for it was near her time to die.
She would not say farewell,
content to sit and brood.
She never whispered a single word
so they didn't think she could.
She reached in vain for her pen
to write across the wall
that while they watched her dying,
it was not her time at all.