Whispers.

Demented fog fills the void
your innocent mind,
bequeathed to me
the day you dined,
your glass skin petrified
eyes fixated divine.

The crack of bone
spliced in honour, for love,
my right hand
cradling her throat
the left drove home
hate instilled
from the age of nine.

Dripping from the casket
of our belligerent mother,
her prayer
forgiveness blind,
her frail limbs slumped
eyes shut tight.

I smiled at my design.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw