My mother’s Fears


Neat-folded fears in ordered row,
you hid with care and well,
with just a tear to streak the dust
of this your private hell.

Tight-packed they sat within the case,
that you had carried close;
an ink-stained piece of childhood,
that once had held your hopes.

But time had rusted worn the locks,
the case of pain was spilled;
cruel memory built your prison,
the hell you feared fulfilled.

Now you huddle in the corner,
the demons crawling close,
along the tortured passage in your mind,
with the door closed soft behind you –

the handle strangely lost –
no way the you that was can ever find.



About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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