I write a story when I don't even know how it ends.


It was a beautiful home, a white picket fence,
two children, 9 and 5, play on the porch.

The sun shines through peeping through the window pane.
While Father sits baking an  apple pie in a well-worn kitchen.
The neighbor boy comes a knockin wanting to play too.
Oh what a scene, what a peace, what a LIFE.

Mother rests in her room and cries and wilts and ******* dies
Why?

The child looks up to the window, wavers and falls.
Behind him sits the moon, and reality wanes.
Father gone, mother too.
Alone again crumbled to dust.
Why?

I do not know.
Do you?