Cry Mercy
Cry Mercy
Her pack of pain upon her back, old mother
struggles to make her way uphill on the street.
Sometimes when the pain is an exquisite knife,
she cannot feel her scabbed and swollen feet.
The burden of her sorrow is etched on her
beautiful, pale and kindly old face.
Confusion wraps around her as she walks,
sticky, and clinging as a web of lace.
She sees the sunlight angels, young and purified
as they skitter along like leaves in the wind.
She knows she must be strong enough
to carry through life her burdens - and never bend.
No one sees her. She is the invisible woman
denied by the frightened world of beauty and youth.
That pirouette like ballerinas keeping time to sad,
unheard music that sings lies instead of truth.
Let them preen in their savage splendor,
and wallow in the deceit that keeps them going.
It’s the worn carcasses, like withered seed pods
that carry the desperate task of knowing…
Knowing there’s no hiding place
to run to when the reaper makes his call.
He laughs aloud at our foolishness,
knowing he’s going to destroy us all.
Copyright © Sherry Asbury | Year Posted 2018
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