April 28, 2016
Gone the smell of child’s breath
sweetened by mother’s milk.
Silence eats time like a goat,
chewing methodically
without power.
Light is a warning
hard to comprehend,
kinder than night.
Children stand on windowsills
shield their eyes from falling stars.
Cold hard flesh
wrapped around my shovel.
Gripping the wall
scrambling for footing in my fresh grave.
Curtains drawn, smell the dirt,
covering my tomb.
Eyes stare at rotted carnations,
footprints on the ribbon
like stenciled abstract art. On an alter
praying to the deaf.
Babs Work In Progress 