The house was still, bereft of voices
A languid and insomniac night it was
None saw a muted heart bleed
And wandered back in time and again.
Mine was the burden to bear and endure
Hearing my own suppressed emotion sob
From earnest grief and anguish past
My mother's demise I can not forget.
How high can I lift mine eyes to the sun?
Though open but in sadness blinded
When shadows veiled the sky in darkness
Even the stars were less lovely in grief.
Yet the world was desolate, without beauty
And rose blossoms were dull and scentless
Oh, how I missed my mother's lullabies
By night when others soundly slept.
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STOPThank you so much.
This is a lovely poem. The last line is eloquent and moving. However, we only curate short stories in the Ink Well community. We would love to receive a story from you in the future.
Thank you for thinking of us when you write creatively.
Thank you.
I am just back to this page after I stopped writing nine months ago. So, poems are no longer curated here in Ink Well community?
No, we don't curate poems. Just short stories.