The jewels upon her dress are losing their luster
And the dyes of its fabric begin to fade
Its warp and weave fraying and growing ragged
On her chalk-like rolling swellings as
He lays his castings out longer and harder daily

Worse
Of course
Are the clinging things
Bloating up with blood on which they feast
Clamoring for more
And turning away from the sight of the sky as they beset her

Still
She is beloved
Deeply and by many
And the thought of leaving her
Though such parting might be needed
Is no easy thing

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