In the hush of command, a duty to bear,
"Clean your room," my mother declared.
Ten minutes she offered, a fleeting decree,
To repay her kindness, my chore to decree.
I start with the bed, a swift ten past,
Each fold a tribute, a promise steadfast.
For all she's endured, my duty unfolds,
In the neatness of sheets, my gratitude molds.
Onto the floor, thirty minutes flown,
A ritual of cleaning, memories I've known.
The least I can do, one last embrace,
To thank her for love that time can't erase.
Laundry in the basket, forty minutes drift,
A tribute in chores, a gesture to lift.
For everything she's done, an offering in time,
The laundry becomes a rhythm, a familial rhyme.
Dusting my shelves, an hour slips away,
A final act of care, a whispered sway.
It's the last time this room will gleam,
An homage to memories, a silent dream.
The room stands clean, a momentary grace,
A sanctuary in order, a pause in the race.
Yet, on the bed, a note holds sway,
"My very last words," it seems to say.
"No one to clean this room," it foretells,
A room pristine, where past and present dwells.
It may stay like this for a fleeting while,
But the dust will return, an inevitable trial.
No one to clean it, a poignant refrain,
A room touched by love, amidst the mundane.
In the echoes of an hour more, I'm drawn away,
Leaving behind a room, in order arrayed.
"Forgive me, Mom," the note does plead,
The least I can offer, in a gesture of need.
After all I've been through, in life's woven hue,
A plea for forgiveness, a heartfelt adieu.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryPoetry is my coping mechanism. It's a profound dive into the intricate emotions swirling within me. Each line serves as a carefully crafted expression, dealing with the weight of genuine, heavy experiences. Carrying the profound weight of what's tru...
