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Carlo-C-GomezPoems
A new blade of grass sprouts among the snarl of weeds —widow's weeds. This mourning is young and soft. Years will come to make it old and brittle —like wind against argil. For now it's a tender creation, open and pink. Even the children do not play as they once did —no blowing big bubbles or laughter filling the sky; —no catching fun in a bottle or chasing after the butterflies. An infant shoot this is —the fragile tendril of what came before. In the evening it bows its head, screen of darkness a consolation. Daylight is far more dangerous, for the cicatrix is stark, unguarded. All alone it will linger a naked residual, a lament to the dagger, Quietus.
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Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
After the Butterflies
A new blade of grass sprouts among the snarl of weeds —widow's weeds. This mourning is young and soft. Years will come to make it old and brittle —like wind against argil. For now it's a tender creation, open and pink. Even the children do not play as they once did —no blowing big bubbles or laughter filling the sky; —no catching fun in a bottle or chasing after the butterflies. An infant shoot this is —the fragile tendril of what came before. In the evening it bows its head, screen of darkness a consolation. Daylight is far more dangerous, for the cicatrix is stark, unguarded. All alone it will linger a naked residual, a lament to the dagger, Quietus.
#death#loss#grief#children#father#mother#butterfly#family#mourning
Carlo-C-Gomez
Written by
Carlo-C-Gomez
56/M/The Exclusion Zone
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
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