El Retrato

hooded by ashen bristles,
thin, cracked lips
press together
in distant resignation

stained with sour
blood and spoiled
claret, they must
not wander  from the
window’s withering
light

for strokes of sunshine
intermittently invade
semi-hollow orbits
as they frantically
seek a footpath within
the dying day

silver agreements
become more precious
with every passing tick

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