My Mum’s Mum.
Who will be my mum's mum?
When the winds wail in agony,
And the doors bang in despair,
When the pieces of chinaware resemble her existence,
And her soliloquies, only the eclipsed sun heard,
Who’s gonna pet her hair,
To tell her all will be well?
Who will be my mum’s mum?
Eons have passed by,
She is older now than I remember.
Greying roots a reminder so sly,
The oracle’s faded now, “You are your own mother.”
Agonising months have flittered by,
Her feet hurt more often than last year,
Bruises by her sides,
The angry man became the conqueror.
Sometimes, I wish the time, I could turn,
Because, my mum doesn’t have a mum.
Harrowing days have flown away,
This path sharper than when she started,
Sanctimoniously, she and I pray,
For from the scene the murderer fled.
So many hours just withered away,
Her hair is shorter than he would’ve liked.
Liberatingly, preaching a life he never lived,
For men like him do not get their deserving time.
And to the devil’s demands she succumbs,
For my mum doesn’t have her mum.
“An ode to Sisyphus”, she says,
Same boulder, same hill, just a different day.
Same clothes, same guilt, just a different day.
I have seen her silently shouting,
“Let it be different, just this day.”
A cavalier hand as such, to love shall never learn;
How old were you, when you felt that dust?
I berated the derision of us,
But an angry man is never kind enough to love.
Tragedy honed her bones,
As my mum doesn’t have her mum.
Immaculate canvases all burnt down,
He murdered her at the first second.
Far away in a house of town,
Where the freedom of will forever threatened.
I know she wishes she could run,
To a place where the angry man can’t hunt,
A trickster’s life is the shortest,
When the nose he holds is the longest.
Muted seconds fly far away,
“It’s running, the time, my dear.”
A precocious girl she was, awaiting her payday,
Sullied fingers and broken heart by a man so austere.
Sometimes, I wonder,
How she got through,
What she got through.
Then, I remember,
She’s is my mum’s mum.
When our mother's aren't with us, and our dad's can't talk to us, we have to be our own parents. We can only hope to be as good as they are. An ode to all the children who miss their parents, and have to be their own.
#Devil #Elegy #God #Hate #Love #Mom #Mother #Mum #Pain #Poem #Poems #Poetry #Prose #Sad #Sisyphus
