Small eyes full of love.
Fear.
Anger.
Big eyes full of pity.
Her mouth moves, but nothing is heard.
Her volume rises. Nothing changes.
Time passes as her voice drops.
She moves less and takes care just the same.
Life giver, oh life giver, what are you saying?
She bears on, drained, yet persists.
It will go on unseen.
Her mother is viewed as frivolous and silly, yet admired.
She too will be seen as such soon by the small eyes turned big.
Strong, tall, and determined.
Frail, twisted tree.
She speaks,
Her words are treated as silence.
She knows, so she speaks less.
Small eyes turned big begin to pity.
Repeat repeat as her words are run through and over.
Respectless and loved.
Unappreciated while fed.
Worshipped but unheard.
She is a quiet woman.
She is a quite woman.
She is quite a woman.
She is my mother.
I am her in every way I disdain and admire.
Someday, I too will swallow my words.