HolyDay

Death
sighs its way
through glitter and tinsel
past prayers and holly and hope
to find
a woman
of
    not quite
thirty seven
years

and
the breath that
touches her fight ravaged
face glides noiselessly down the
hall to
her child
of
    not quite
eleven
years

hovers
             lingers
                           considers
blows a
                    kiss
then passes by
trailing
               life
in its wake

© s rogers 2008

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