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The Child

Too many times, tears on my face, Too many times… I don’t remember crisp snow, White ruffled curtains…laughter A hand on my hair at night Before a warm blanket of sleep Covered me softly. I only dream these things – they were not. I remember little dead kittens, Lonely nights with no sound of music Filling the void. A coffin and a man with a bloodstained fist… Tears…tears. My beginning, Molded pottery… Heavy, hard to break, Hard to see through – into Holding much. I cannot make white curtains now. For the eyes of my child Are crimson red.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2008

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Date: 12/6/2008 9:21:00 AM
Both comforting and grim images... '...I cannot make white curtains now,' heartbreaking. Well done Patricia! Best wishes, Keith
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