Small Hand

Most days I feel I'm living
half a life
lost out on those moments that make,
the sacrifice of worth,
pending through the doubts,
the asinine assumptions and abuse
that empties the damned cup
with nothing, of nothing.


A life half loved and longing,
for that something that brings
the laughter to lightning,
to resume my mantel of motherhood:
not to bow beneath this
ceaseless weight.

Waiting. Pending.
Not to break beneath silence
but in stillness sense
the path
back to you, back to me.
I tried. I lost. I love.