Crumpled bits of paper – 

their purpose crushed in

a singular fist.  The necessary,

the desired; hopes and dreams

intermingled with the humdrum.

All discarded; all done with.

She regarded the growing pile:

would she remember their contents

in a week, a month, a year?

Would what she required today

tomorrow seem quite so dear?

Brief glimpses of ink

taunted with peeping letters

once written by her own hand;

that hand already ageing,

perceptible in thinning skin’s

reveal of veins.  Perhaps,

she mused, it really was

time for a change.

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