Not the mother of a son. 

Broken pieces on the floor;

Was it a jar or her heart?

That fell to the floor with a slam of the door

As he walked away from a promise of

Until death do them apart. 

They flowed some and then some more,

Tears down her nose, dripping onto the floor

Rivulets streaming across her face,

Etching into her skin, signs of sorrow. 

Grimace or a face? What would she see?

In the puddle of tears at her feet. 

Bending down to pick up the pieces,

She looks not at the mirror of truth, 

Her harsh reality, she looks upon instead,

On pieces of a broken promise

Cutting soft skin against sharp glass

Watching red drip, mix with salt.

Her grief and pain: two peas in a tripod. 

She sobs some and then some more

And then grows numb and feels no more

What could she do now?

Beg or apologise?

Would either give sense to Mr hubby unwise?
She lay there till morning come,

Sleep evaded her like her unconceived son. 

Then she got up and mopped the floor

Dressed herself, walked out the door. 
She wouldn’t beg or apologise

It wasn’t her fault that people were unwise. 


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