The limbs of a forgotten woman

are like hands of a dead clock,

trying to turn and signal the hours

only to find stillness and silence.

Desire flows through her body,

only to find its object gone,

tears of pain and solitary climaxes

course her face erasing hope.

The body of a forgotten woman,

becomes a memory in itself,

a trodden upon, well-known territory,

owing no excuses to a fancy map.

The spirit of a forgotten woman

becomes the one that nurtures her

pushes her forward in cold nights

and teaches her old female secrets

to go on in search of her own sun.