She ages like stale bread forgotten in some hollow cove
Whispering panicked prayers into the nothingness surrounding her
For more, for less, for nothing, to placate this intangibly expansive void
On an ever-waning peak she does not remember climbing.
She is a necessity sitting plainly, patiently, nonsensically
Waiting for time to erode her softest features
Hardening at their very core, rotting from the inside out,
Until she is as dry and useless as she was once startlingly hopeful.
She ages like fine wine tucked delicately on unstained pine
Coolly bidding her time, until it's her time, until they decide it's her time,
Until the idea has dwindled into an afterthought and she is no more than decoration
For others to enjoy and ruminate on her exquisite, undefined, tastes.
She is a waste, oh, what a senseless waste
To see such a quality piece expire despite her facilities
Had anyone else been given the same, the things they would have done,
But such accomplishments are behind her now yet look how beautifully she crumbles.
She fears it, that unavoidable decay, it has existed far longer than she ever hoped to
So let it be, let it be, such meanderings are useless anyway
Her tattered vessel is empty and takes up space
So let it be, let it be, she is already passed her time.
