When we noticed her nights were short And she could hardly have a meal That’s when we really knew It was all becoming real
She stopped taking extra shifts Or even showing up at all But I don’t think she really knew It was all becoming real
Our mom grew sick with worry While she grew sick with fear The shaking, the sounds, the shadows It was all becoming real
“I need help. I need help. I need help,” Outside white, steel doors she cried Was she safe? Would it last? Would she heal?” It was all becoming real.
The distant wailing of wind whisks the wintry bristles of my skin. The low, sardonic growl of thunder reverberates in the bony cage ‘round my heart. As I hastily ride on, the path is at length obscured by a thick cloud of russet dust. Like a whimpering creature soothed by her mother’s gentle song, the nebulous dirt road is settled by a gentle rain, and familiar Old Oaks and wooden fences come into view again.
