Her confident stride, reduced to a shuffle,
The once elegant hair now tousled and wild,
And died jet black,
In memory of her child.
The flamboyant air surrounding her being,
Doused by the limbic ice pick of her seeing,
Kevin dead, her son, passed away,
No longer living, breathing, being.
Her tone; hushed, a darkened muffle.
Every word; a heart wrenching scuffle,
Between tears and insanity, she is,
Letting go of life’s hustle and bustle.
Now she is weeping, barely breathing,
The pain of an ever-present feeling.
“It was my fault”,
Her insides keep screaming.
“He was my little boy” her lips keep repeating,
“Happy little Kevin”, she is not yet believing,
That Kevin wasn’t happy and hadn’t been in years,
She had been too busy and had been for years,
To see his slide into depression,
His father’s funeral, his emotional regression,
His blackening of hair, clothes and soul,
Now she is witnessing her owns sons’ burial.
The bath ran full with ice cold water,
Beethoven’s fifth came from the living room,
An elliptical note addressed to her,
Scrunched in his fist,
A shiver of calm moved over his wrist.
She had needed to pee,
And strolled through the door,
Her buoyant stride collapsing,
As she fell to the floor.
He had not locked the door,
So that she was forced to see
Her sons red body,
Through the glass pointed the moon.
At the splashes of red spilt into the room,
From inside the bath,
Kevin was smiling;
Life; a dirty bathroom.