She has tattoos of the moon and stars.

And a black Tabby long-haired coon.

She liked it rough in the back of cars.

With a boy, that was her ruin.

She lost her mind to disarray.

In a cocktail of her choice.

She listens. She don’t speak or say.

Many words in her own voice.

They broke her and her beauty.

To age, time, decay, decline.

It’s not true. I have this duty.

She was once a friend of mine.

Dennis Mantin

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