A friend recently counselled me on my loss... now it seems it's time to return the favour. Cancer is a vile, cruel disease. "The Dance" I wrote 2 months ago, explains the first part of the story.


The Dance, Returned





"She still wears the face of my mother",
You say to me, with the hint of a tear
Welling in the corner of your eye
But she is gone, long gone
She is haunted by the shadows
Seeing monsters in the curtains
No longer recognizing her own face
Nor mine..........

The sadness explodes in my chest,
A woman, determined and strong
Once a single mum, and Deputy Mayor
Can no longer tie her own shoes
The last glimmer of her fight
Is used to battle her family
As they try to dress her, bathe her
Love her..........

"How ironic," I smile and say to you,
That the iron will that made her
Is the only part of her that remains
I see you're tired but still admire
Her grip on what is left,
And we both cry, as I take your hand
Waltz you as you once waltzed me
Oh my love..........






Poetry by Purple Phoenix
Read 515 times
Written on 2009-12-05 at 04:10

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