John
The hammer blows fall, with staggered intensity,
They land with dubious precision,
For spreading pain, they have a propensity,
He has already made his decision.
The walls are thin, the sound travels well,
One could almost keep time to the thumps,
The brutal sound, made when an angel fell,
Who was pushed, and did not jump.
We turn a blind eye, to things that happen,
Behind other's closed doors,
Ignorance is the liquid, that flows from the vacuum,
Through which the aggression pours.
The small boy cringes, with each new blow,
And wishes he was old like his brother,
Hoping to stop, or even to slow,
To keep John from beating his mother.
His thoughts turn violent, as they are liable to be,
He feels he is doomed and alone,
He wishes his stepfather would stop, and let his mother breathe,
But that's wishing for mercy rarely shown.
He felt every blow that fell upon the woman who gave him life,
For him there could never be another,
He would happily destroy the cause of any harm or strife,
That would ever befall his mother.
He is older now, and the pain is gone,
At least that is for the most part,
The world is still full of hurt and wrong,
But there will always be a safe place for her in his heart.
Copyright © Joseph Klare | Year Posted 2007
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