The house is empty.
She is too.
Hollow as straw
and black as blighted wheat.
Seated alone,
collecting past thoughts
instead of new ideas,
fearing total loneliness
and a late onslaught of tears,
clearing torn love letters
from around her feet,
then walks to the open door
and scatters them like confetti.....
over the sodden street.
Sally Plumb
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