PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

in which to cry;
through joyous eyes
I saw my son born,
through bleeding eyes
I watched him die.

Grant me a corner
in which to cry.

Permit me a quiet place;
let tender fingers
sew together
a wounded heart,
which through
my son's death,
has been torn apart.

Permit me
a healing place.

Allow me a soft bed
on which to rest;
let someone soothe
my aching brow;
keep the memory
of my first born son,
not amidst the dry reeds
or dull souls,
but amongst the best.
Allow me a bed
on which to rest.