Tuesday, December 18, 2012


His tiny feet wont cross
Her forlorn threshold anymore.
Those innocent eyes wont ask
The endless questions she adored.
That tender voice wont be heard
In her hallways or her bedroom.
Those clothes with the smell of him
Will be stowed away someplace else soon.
His grubby hands wont mess
Her walls and carpets with crayons.
Numbed with unspeakable horror,
She fights for strength to go on.

Midst this heart rending sorrow,
Gun shots hammer away in her ears,
And she struggles with her faith,
With candles and prayers.
But these methods for healing,
Seem pointless, seem absurd;
A moot conversation;
Ignored and unheard.
The punctured body of her baby
Is an image seared on her brain
She still cant believe it
This is a bad dream, she feigns.

I sit and can only wonder
At the mother who has to!
My heart goes out to her...
And what she must do.
What a price has life extracted!
For what conceivable reasons?
Will anything ever be same again?
Whether we change laws or seasons.
How does one start after insanity like this?
What in the world could bring her catharsis?