Earth To Ashes
He was always wild,A little
On the difficult side.
He was brittle,
Vulnerable,
Raw,
An ever-open
Sore.
Just as you thought
That he might be healing,
He would show
That he was feeling
As before:
Pained
To the core.
As he grew,
He turned towards
Everything that kept him
From moving forwards:
The wrong kind
Of people,
Of substances,
Of steeple.
Nothing worked
To improve him;
Nothing really touched him enough
To move him.
The only times
That a smile was seen
On his soul
Was if he'd been
Self-destructive:
Taking unhealthy
Items,
Taking his wealthy
Start
And laughing, leering
In the face
Of his parents, fearing
The worst.
The times they cried
Saw his pleasure
Multiplied.
As his life was ending,
His mind and body wrecked,
There was barely anything
Left to detect
Of his origins,
Of his privilege,
Of his no-apparent-need
To go over the edge.
Goodbye,
Son:
From your parents: Mother Moon
And Father Sun.
13:05, Thu. 12/03/2009.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 990 times
Written on 2009-03-12 at 14:10
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