No son should hear their mother's cry
muffled by the whispers of 'I'm fine'.
The tears still fresh from the eye,
like a salt stained ravine.
I've seen the greatest fall,
the strongest weakened,
and I witnessed
my mum fall on a weekend;
not a spiral towards the floor,
not in physicality but
in an emotional rollercoaster
that has herself coasted
off to where the words can't reach;
where her heart does bleed,
and where her mouth doesn't speak.

"Mum are you ok?" I mutter,
knowing well enough of the answer,
But i pretend to be some majestic dancer
prancing around the topic.
There's a caution sign,
it reads "wet floor"
only floor is spelt different,
it's spelt with an H
an E and a continuation of art.
I tiptoe around the sign
as though they were land mines,
afraid that one false step
could pour my own death.
...
No son should hear their mother's cry
muffled by the whispers of 'I'm fine'.