I was born of dust and bones,
to a battered mother across the pond.
With a warm *****
and gentle hand,
she would cradle me gently.
On a many days,
her eyes would melt tears
into my cotton wool blanket.
I felt her agony
seep through the simple
fabric of our bond.
The coward would stalk
her with his angry words,
Knowing she could not
leave him, because she
feared more bitter moments
of bruises
During the silent times,
her violent screams would turn
to whispers and lost time,
But she would always find a way
to cradle me in her arms.
As minutes turned to hours in the day,
I laid helpless in my crib.
A somber calm shadowed over me,
the feeling of my warmth was gone.
I wept but a single tear down
my rounded red cheek.
I could not cry anymore,
for I feared those angry words
and violent hands.
I laid in her whispers and lost time.
The cradle of her warm *****
and gentle hand were
no longer here.
From an infant point of view. Cradled by a mother, we seem to never forget when it all started
