My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”
I roll over.
My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.
I roll over.
And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”
I roll over.
Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.
I roll over.
And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.
I roll over and will again and again
And again.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”
I roll over.
My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.
I roll over.
And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”
I roll over.
Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.
I roll over.
And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.
I roll over and will again and again
And again.
I'd a tendency to self-destruct; and seldom left the "destruction" to render only myself.
