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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2287277
A poem written after the passing of my mother.

U N W A N T E D 💔 P O P P Y

Winter ebbs,
stern routine,
a perpetual stranger,
sowing his will
upon us all.

they draw close,
unceasing, sluggardly,
dead-like fingers,
clawing deep into the essence
of the land beneath us.

Corrupted in,
decay blue-gray
skeletal roughed gauntlets,
eagerly tighten their
on warn slippery reins...
until the moment comes,
when, you,
just can't,

A ghostly rider in full stride,
inevitable dance partner
whose thundering hooves
beat the ground towards
us from the moment
we emerge
into this world.

The shade of absolute dread,
a churning gut,
gray plumes bleeding steady
from drab flailing rags,
over a lost son,
the few of kin,
pounding of thunder-
broth spilling mouth-

Mother's time upon us,
A foot to the ledge
ready for some time
to dive
into the ether.

The one who brings illness
with each stride,
sopping wet hooves-
land shuddering under
a raven-black cloak-
in ribbons.
Tattered, filthy from an ocean of time-
drug through
snow, mud,
until rag tails flow
the end a hound at toe.

A snowy farewell
grief flowing through the cold of winter
a deep-cutting chill,
a shadow across the land,
wandering, lurking ,
through the deep green wet
of forest darkness.

Winter is upon us,
wet, unceasing panting of the hunt,
teeth, hunger, drool,
Aching anticipation!-
Your blood red petals
now nothing but,
The towering pitch black gates
are closed.
Hounds restless have her
scent, the end in motion.

Time relentlessly weighs on,
The moment is near.
A ghostly touch,
barely kissing each petal.

A faint crooning-
familiar lullabies,
but wondering whispers
lost in the dark.

The cold long slumber is near.
Out of lush black soil she shot up,
reaching in silent despair,
Every ethereal fiber of your existence.
Why so much effort?
Why so much pain?
So much... fear?

For something in her life-
she never saw....
Just a bit of warmth,
among jackals.
Something true,
within their endless disdain.
To be loved-appreciated...
were never on her bill.

In endless rows,
Trapped in Father's perfect symmetry.
The unspoken norm was uniformity,
They were fed equally,
Drank from the same creek,
"The same holds the forest at bay..."

As things were,
Mom, was a bit different.
We all observed-
Her essence becoming sadness,
Her petals giving in-
to droop under the weight of life.


were my only,
amongst thousands
red in the breeze,
now, ashes where
fire preserved
a withered poppy.
I could’ve been a better son…


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