Of course it was painful letting go,
But holding on, would’ve been a death sentence.

He wove himself a net of victimhood.
Promptly wrapped himself in his spindly web,
Screaming “Someone else threw this net on me!”

He stormed into the room and a smoke screen descended
Across the paper thin surface of
His eyes,
Thick burgeoning clouds
Hiding every vulnerable thing,
Concealing the knots of pain
That he unties
And whips across my face
In anger.
Little son, why?
You are too small to suffer such possession,
Such a blank canvas stare,
As if you were no longer there.

There have been cataclysmic shifts inside your world,
And perhaps you feel as if you have no control,
But this darkness,
It is feeding off the edges of your soul
And I am practically on my knees
Begging you to curl
Back into me,
Like you did in the days before

You were born.

Please let me love you out of this sadness.

I would sacrifice each of my limbs,
And more,
Just to know the right way to guide
Your little spirit
Into the light,
And far away from the lingering threat  
Of storm clouds
Across your eyes,
And their depths,
That should be only
Innocent.