Her life came
Her death came
Her thoughts
Her dreams
Her words
Her deeds
Lie unwritten
Unrecorded
Unrecalled
Her face
Smiles only
In the memory
Of a mirror
On a wall
In a hallway
Irretrievable
She was a stone
Unturned
3 comments:
Sounds like your Mom, Randy.
Thanks for reading and commenting Pam. Mom’s life was much too short, but as she told me before it ended, it was a good life, and she got to make her mark on the world. This poem is instead for a girl who didn't have a chance at that "good life" ... A girl whose face does not live on in faded photographs, whose words are not remembered, whose needs were not taken care of, and whose potential was never realized.
That girl is the kind of person we see on the psychiatrist's sofa in our office. A throw-away kid.
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