In Keeping Home
I wish to write to you of your loss dear child,
but I fear that words will go unheard.
Your grieving has left you with deaf ears,
and blindness to the day.
And recovery has always been a step away, beyond your walls;
the undiscovered joys of abandoned rooms,
and times unspent.
After tidying up that last event, and leaving it as it was
in your mind,
the banners, the streams-
the corks and shutes
of newlyweds and a thousand gifts,
unopened.
And now the rug bears no stain,
but shadow and light,
and the bed is still neatly made.
And your world continues to fade,
behind the storms, the bleary pane,
and the darkness of your day.
And words are lost, dear child,
lost among the draft that passes through,
the heaving past upon your lap,
ever since he's gone away.
You always used to say, that
love should last forever.
It was in your eyes,
the danger, the subdued cry;
memories were not meant to imprison.
My child, I feel I should run to you,
but I choose not to stand in your way
lead you through the heavy fortress you've made;
I will not sully your memory
of the day.
But pain is the breath of madness,
and too often ignored-
it is the fog that lines our windows,
until it is wiped away.
2007-12-29
17:32:38
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3 answers
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asked by
Pleasantly Plain
1
in
Poetry