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Sunday Best

written by: Stanley Wilkin



Her loneliness became her like a winter coat,
drab but comforting,
smothering her form as her sorrow sucked her mind,
comforted and caressed it,
softened and soothed
when there was nothing else but those old
parasitic memories tugging at her sleep,
ruffling her solitude,
ripping through the padded calico
of threaded disappointment.
In her last hours she took it off and smiled.

Stanley Wilkin

Stanley Wilkin

Academic and writer residing in Portugal.
Stanley Wilkin

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