Wednesday, November 18, 2009
He opened his eyes,
As he felt the fleeting of steps,
Carried in Mary’s arms,
Being the infant that he was.
Recognizing his mother’s cry,
His cheek brushing her arm,
He let out a wail,
Till the swiftness of her steps, came to a halt.
As time passed,
The image of a large figure holding a cane,
Chasing them out,
When senior ball approached,
A new suit was to be tailored,
He was back living in the attic,
Isolation was not new to him anymore.
While others wove their silk three-piece,
He found the same stitch, but only on his arm.
As Prom King gave his chaperons pieces of truffle,
He was putting the pieces of the attic back together.
They say the worst part about a wound, is its scar.
The same people preach, that time heals all wounds.
What we choose to believe is always left to us,
And when something goes wrong, we are the ones who are left bruised and battered.