poetry

Feather.

I was wondering whether the weather was deliberately changing on me.
Whether the feathers were flying just because I was wondering about the weather.
The weather of death, of fury, of a tantalizing truth that I refused to understand.
Thunderstorms. The terrorizing sound made me drop the feather on the dirt ground,
Tainting its perfectly white facade.

I cried at the sight of this frightful occurrence. Did the feather weigh a ton? Was the weather attacking me? The feather? Move feather, move. Don't stand still feather. Don't try to avoid the life you had before you.

Like I did.


A Fallen Soul

The chilling reverberation of a mother’s cry

Holds a daughter’s senseless words in stillness

Puts a son’s egocentric thoughts in suspension

And permits a father’s heart to repress the lies

A mother’s lungs refuse to admit in air

As she tries desperately to breathe

While her eyes refuse to let her see

But she realizes she shouldn’t give a care

A daughter sprints to the finish line

Feverishly, praying for a good outcome

But when she sees her laying there by a son

A daughter knows she wasn’t merely in time

A son, holding her in his hands

Wonders if it was his punishment

A self-centered soul, full of eccentric confidence

Was the key to all of the “shoulda’s,” woulda’s,” and “cans”

A father pleading, beseeching for amnesty

Only made the situation worse

For a mother could hear his lack of remorse

Only a thunderstorm of tears would partially allow relief

A mother, lying motionless on the bathroom floor

A broken family holding up their fists

Screaming to the skies, “Who could’ve done this?!”

A mother opens her eyes, and with a mellifluous voice, says “Look in the mirror.”