~~¤~~
Howling wind shushes the weeping moonchild
Rocking the crib of black clouds with her bruised hands.
The night never darker, ever,
The moon forgotten somewhere there.
The rustling leaves sing lullabies to the heart
Dampened by eternal rivers of tears,
Forming an abyss of farewells, to the island
Of her own flesh and blood, now drifted by death forever.
Who would hold his hands in the dark ahead?
Who would hug her bossom
On sweet mornings and merry may picnics,
In the lightning strike, in the dark damp night?
Even the stars creep into invisibility
Fade and mourn as the twin jewels close forever.
Stones of support, stay in their place, weak and weathered,
Holding the trembling hands of the weeper.
The earth praying for the spring to sprout in the dead of autumn,
But only the weeping mother's heart shall know,
That healing and happiness are a lifetimes below,
Buried with her whole world, dead as that innocent soul.
~~¤~~
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Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
