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My father never tells me what he thinks,
Perhaps it is because he doesn't know,
For faded light behind his eyes does blink,
So one should never ask him fast or slow.
And mother doesn't care more than she sleeps,
Bitter, she is, the more the years do pass,
And laundry, she does pile around in heaps,
Like bottles lay in piles of broken glass.
In sister dearest's mind the truth does creep,
But spoiled by the years of forced pills,
A mother's love is all she fears she has,
So, rightly, does my heart for family spill.
- ch
YOU ARE READING
carpe diem
Puisibrought to you from the far corners, shallow pools, and desperate depths of my mind complete
