Why don't her parents cry?
Shouldn't they lament as much as I?
I cannot control the tears streaming down my face
every time I look into
this wooden sarcophagus
And yet I notice that their grief is no less present than mine,
plain in their eyes is a sorrow beyond comprehension
Plain in their sobs in the other room,
the wails of a mother having lost her child
Yet they can keep face in this room of
close strangers esier than I
Why?
Perhaps they are stronger than I am
Perhaps they have already spent all the tears they have
Perhaps nothing can be worse than the moment they found their little girl laying still in the next room,
never to wake again
Maybe that is why
YOU ARE READING
Screeches of the un-oiled Mind
PoesíaA collection of "poetry" (if you can really call it that) I'm writing on a whim. It's simply a way for me to get things out of my head so don't expect anything spectacular.
