My mother’s eyes still redden
Like a hurt child
Too tough to open and cry
His hands were too pink
His veins were too blue
His temper was too short
My mother has a shell
And she loves it,
Hides her, hides her.
His heart could not sing,
His father had set
Him in his ways.
My mother hade tried
She reached for his hand
Itching for three.
His love for his Savior
His falling from it
His deep silent cage
My mother is quiet
About what has been
She’s left it behind.
His crawling through the door
His overtaking disease
His saggy lipped drawl
My mother’s hands are warm,
Never repeating the past.
Tending child and garden.
He sits there the same
A dull man consumed
Waiting to die.
My mother paints a smile.
She wears it always
Skirting around the topic.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 2:18 PM UTC
My mother’s eyes still redden
Like a hurt child
Too tough to open and cry
His hands were too pink
His veins were too blue
His temper was too short
My mother has a shell
And she loves it,
Hides her, hides her.
His heart could not sing,
His father had set
Him in his ways.
My mother hade tried
She reached for his hand
Itching for three.
His love for his Savior
His falling from it
His deep silent cage
My mother is quiet
About what has been
She’s left it behind.
His crawling through the door
His overtaking disease
His saggy lipped drawl
My mother’s hands are warm,
Never repeating the past.
Tending child and garden.
He sits there the same
A dull man consumed
Waiting to die.
My mother paints a smile.
She wears it always
Skirting around the topic.
Request permission to use this poem