Red blotches maul her flesh and just below them, a yellowing tint that gives the illusion of jaundice.
Her eyes are sunken, black pits encircling, cradling pupils lost in despair. Hair sits mangled, tangled, heaped sloppily into a bun atop her flaky scalp.
Chapped lips suck the stick, a nose inhaling the stench of smoke.
Musty clothes squeeze her body.
Visceral words spew out of her mouth, shouting curses and insults.
Ravaged with addiction, she denies the need to escape this darkness.
Meanwhile, her mother sits idly by.
Black hair grays, lightened by stress.
Mother eases the malady of a wayward child through sips of alcohol and pills.
Promising moderation, she seems to forget these initial patterns are how her daughter’s struggles began too.
So it shall be when stress is relieved by human endeavors.
Christ tests to draw his loved ones near;
to see if idols will tempt and allure, or if repentance and submission will reign in a heart.
Naught be all else to us, save that thou art!
*I want to write a story, but character development and plot lines sometimes fail me. Poetry has always been an outlet for grief, an avenue that satiated a writer’s passion but suited my short attentions.
**Normally my titles are more creative. I honestly am so worn down by this week that I couldn’t think of anything better. A friend died…I grieve and in it, can’t seem to find the right words for a title.