His Final Storm
Around the old man’s sick bed
Arranged in the dining room
His amber bottles of pills were spread
And the mother a loving wife was playing
Serving herself iced vodka and tea
There she shed her cold crystal tears
For all the neighbors to see
You could feel a storm brewing
As the young sons thundered their rage
While their father’s skin turn papery thin
Their mother took center stage
Even the pill bottles were rattling
In the gathering forces of guilt and blame
Who loved him the most, used him the least
And who should feel the most shame
The air was damp with silent weeping
And grief clung to the walls around him
His wife’s hidden bottles and family lies
Made up his fifty years of martyrdom
It was in the clear light of morning
He lay still in a kind of peace
For he had now left the bedlam behind
His face sunken and calm, the pain had ceased
For the family’s drama--a new beginning
Copyright © Linda Milgate | Year Posted 2011
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