Deferred be blankets concealing inquiring cries
within the cot swung at death of day.
Deterred be voices of sootless calm
and blared out lullabies of slung stones astray.
'Quiet', beckon, be it wont of life
for parental order to cry and wail.
'Patience' be virtue of every strife
taught by scorns of scorious hail.
Gorge down the words your ill-tempered throats.
Fold away your doubt deep in your heart's rifts.
Pocket the lump of clay you so insistently hold.
Anchor your gaze which in shadows drifts.
Beware! the day 'tis not too far
for yesterday's children grow weak and frail.
The taught become teachers, destined to mar
the children of tomorrow's black strands to gray.
The words doth climb the ladder of their vocal cords,
and the folded blankets make way from the rift of night.
The lump in their pockets is pottered to shape of sword--
look away; tomorrow, today's children will strike.
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Author:
PennedAI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 27th, 2025 05:44
- Comment from author about the poem: Poem about trauma, and the cyclic nature of grief Also marks my 80th poem Hope you enjoy reading
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Beautiful words mark a sad and tragic cycle. So nicely worded a fave
Your thoughts are always appreciated. Thank you so much for the fave! I think this might be one of my favorite poems I wrote, if i may say so myself😅
Glad u enjoyed
It is my pleasure Abdullah
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