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Poetry
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| Look | |
| By B.D. | ||||
| 20 July 2006 | ||||
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Sad but true. I had touched her grave and it singed my hand smooth, black stone with golden letters appearances can be deceiving I had thought it was the sun but it was the fire of her spirit that once and still remains that can be found in my father some would say circumstances an elderly lady five children, raised passed two grandchildren - what luck for the third! - me a slight inconvenience in her life a light burden too heavy for worn shoulders would she have loved me? now? did she love me then? only she knew the answer an answer that is silenced forever though voiced by the dandelion, with the help of the wind, left bare the elucidated reply still resounding in my head is that I was not the grandchild that brought a smile to her face I remember the night - a Ford Focus on a road the orange glow of streetlights a child searching the night sky through the passenger-side window searching for comforting stars but even the stars refused to be kind not twinkling as they do in fairy tales and dreams but burning as they always do presenting themselves for what they are. a single tear cascades down a single cheek a burning tear that, like a fire, refused to be held back and controlled instead going down its own path a path unbroken by human hands because unlike a fire the tear was shed in the dark forever remaining in the dark not lonely and thus unafraid for it is in the company of related strangers: the question, the night, the memory, the reply sometimes questions are better left unasked because life was better when it was imagined but life is not a fairy tale nor a dream it's simply there presenting itself for what it is if you dare to look
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