The pain she holds in her tight chest might be told best by the cold September night’s rain that rolled in from the west.
She is the tale of how a mother’s breast once blessed by a babies lonely breath, are remembered now only as crimson stains on a white wedding dress.
The blue eyes she has not forgot are realized by a plot topped with potted forget me nots.
She fakes her smiles in photo booths, so watchful eyes can see, for she knows if she shows them her truth, it will surely not set her free.
Their vision will be her prison, their sight her cell, so it is her decision to spend her nights here in Hell.
She must be given to the land of the lost, just as the cost of this loss demands, so she stands chained to a tiny cross with shiny bloodstained hands.
A mother’s love above all others has been smothered in sin.
The good Lord weeps and the Devil grins.