Lonely Song Publishing - Writings

V. Meanwhile...

A window open in the westward wing

Allows well-calculated prescriptions to be delivered

To those outside whose time is passed

Or not to come.

Your mother is one.

But she is no fool;

Having little, wanting less

And calling out above the rest:

Do I not know myself best?

The reply is soft, well-practiced

Like warm mist to the ears

Black smoke to the mind:

Good mother, if life were truly your own

And this generous well were dry to the bone

And the things that we know now were nevermore shown

Do you really believe you could go it alone?

Now challenged

She plumbs the depths of deepest thought...

There is something – something!

Unordered, wild, empty

It could have been!…it will not be.

In loneliness of clouded dreams

She has everything she needs

Everything she cannot reach

Everything she cannot say.

And so she stalls,

She prays.

His stare is learned

It does not stray

Backed by the power of knowledge in gray

The sacrosanct peer-reviewed cards on display

And under its weight she concedes.

Part 6