O The Grieving
My thoughts let go of a thousand memories,
Like faces, dates, times and places;
Yet, I can easily recall each and every detail,
On the day of your funeral.
O the grieving . . .
In the middle of a snow storm I followed,
And the wind blew back my long hair;
As we meandered down a winding cold path,
The wild storm paused in the trees.
O the weeping . . .
Snowflakes fell on me from the tangled branches,
Falling like crying tears cascading down;
I am lost and moaning in this forever, ever memory,
And now the snow drifts in the cemetery.
O the sadness . . .
A headstone is buried deep in the pure white,
And but one engraved word is revealed;
In this pristine cold, dead winter wonderland,
Only one word can be seen, mother.
O the lamenting . . .
Hidden beneath the snow . . .
I will treasure your arms last embrace mother
Till this heart stops beating . . . .
September 24, 2014
Written by Broken Wings
Entered into the contest, A poem not entered in a contest, sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2014
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