Who Met Death
The woman was indeed pushing
her way through the crowd,
pulling, stepping, crushing,
none to proud,
on her face was an expression of relief,
then it turned to genuine compassion,
the child on the street,
blood at his feet,
was not her son,
then another one,
pushed through the crowd,
crying loud,
coughing, gasping, grasping for breath,
it was her child who met death.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment