Love’s Madness

continue

 

 

Her parents told her if she married that man,

my father, it would be a slow yet painful

agonizing death of regrets.

 

I always thought mother was closer than

she needed to be, as she cried in her

loneliness for her sanity of childhood

fantasies she hung on to with hope.

 

The war had broken out and he left her

with child, oh sure she was swept up by

his heroism and masculinity, but why

did he have to leave her with yet

another child?

 

She never really knew him, she just got

swept away by his lies and being told it

was time to marry, after all everybody

did back then, and a man talked a streak

to get his woman to break and let

him in her bed.

 

A dowry was saved, as her future came

with laughter froth with tears for a man

she didn’t know, but trusted all those years.

 

It all turned into jealousy and madness,

and the sadness that encompassed them

was built around complete chaos and

mourning hangovers from the nights

before, when he would drag her across our

living room floor.

 

Yet she forgave him with words like,

a drunkard doesn’t know what he is

doing and can be such an unpredictable fool,

she said to me with eyes teary and cheeks

slapped rosy stained

Complete insanity her vanity a flower child

crushed, her pedals plucked and torn and

her soul scorned for simply being a mother

and a good one at that, but cheapened

by his fists.

 

Looking through the kaleidoscope

she often told me, there were good times

with your father, but you can’t talk a

mean dog down while he is frothing

at the mouth.

 

He left us on her 40th birthday, the Dicks

made sure by cuffing this hood and jerked

him from us for good, she left and took us

kids with her welfare check, and tried to

make her fantasies come true,

it never happened.

 

So death it was, yet painful and slow

and 15 years tomorrow no sorrow is

cast in stone on his epitaph, we laughed

and walked away from the father

I never knew.

 

On the other side of heaven where

the angels sing in accord, sit’s a flower child,

my mother, with scented curly black locks,

skin as white and fresh as melting snow,

looking down at her son, blowing him a kiss

of remembrance from long ago RIP sweet

angel of mine for “I will find you.”

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved

 

 


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