Like the hands of a clock,
Stuck in time,
Is the birth of an unloved
A petal pushes through, “a girl.”
Hope, her murmur, for happiness and
The cradle song, a grotesque
Born at home, sent forth by him, isn’t this where love begins?
An angel without wings, cuddled but not fully
Between the before and the now he started loving Jesus, not her.
The flower grows.
A child in a crowd, eyes wide, ripped from the hand meant to guide.
His pain festers, convulsing the depths of his
Tendrils of wretchedness suffocate the
Grotesque, annihilation too violent to bear.
A cadaver, mostly dead, tormented, blind,
Hold my hand?
A kiss too much to ask?
Her grimace screams, am I pretty?
The vessel for tea, shattered beyond repair.
Starving for love, insecure, she finds a man to provide.
Torrents of bombs, carnage complete, he returns.
A plethora of years together.
Sixty-eight, if you count.
As she feared, he passes first, mind
Toxic change, no memories remain.
A number, the only word at hand, before passing to the other side.
It was four, no, that’s not it, maybe it was
Left alone, her mind grows dim, timorous all the time.
Her longing for love, never died.
The one she could not please.
Life ends, “We regret to inform you.”
Hers in confusion, anxiety,
Everything is better now.
since Jesus took her home.
Albert, she is