In the frailties of sickness,
sidelong the realities pass like sleep on a dreary day
Easy enough to forget the reasons we recover
O' my soul, where should I lay?
The young man outside in the Winter
Camped at the arena
Boastful of his independence
All his life, his most ambitious idea
Fallout, the mothers
With but a word to give
It is in her prayers
That a son or daughter may live
What other expectation
But to fall away from her fear
And into the palm of the hand
Of a reality she seems to leer
Frost gathers at his lashes
The cold permeates my sweater
I tell him "Go home"
He sneers and secures the fetters
of his self-righteousness.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: December 10th, 2025 09:47
- Comment from author about the poem: True story
- Category: family
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments2
Youth thinks they know more. A hard poem but so many are such
Thank you. It's true, what you say
You are most welcome
My friend, this one hits with a cold clarity…the sickness, the winter, the distance between guidance and pride. It lands heavy in the best way. Beautifully done. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Wow! I could never think so highly of my work. Thank you so much!
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