Ah,
The cyclical effect
Of generational trauma
The incessancy of his
Encroaching dark aura
He refuses to look past his umbra
He cannot perceive the pain he inflicts
I'm sure that
He doesn't even wallow - only wails
A piteous cry. A melodramatic howl
And he dares to sit there and wonder
Why no ties prevail?
He is an old man now
And still he believes
That the disease that was he,
Was nothing more than
An elaboration. A tease.
The last so-called apology he had given
I had somehow still accepted gladly
The girl, still clutching one last note
She slid it under the door
And hoped
Silly girl,
She should have known
That hope is dead
There was never any perception
No conception of his venom
Two decades later,
And still he wails
This woman does not feign indifference
Moonflowers abloom,
Defiant in their noctilucence
**** him and his darkness!
How dare his mere presence
Make my stems cower
I'd thought those memories
Had begun to wither
Fading, obscuring into evanescence
But he'd made my leaves quiver
And here I am again,
Trying to bloom
Again
A poem about the long echo of abuse, and the girl who hoped—
until she didn't.
For anyone who's had to grieve someone still living,
and grow anyway.
