by Glenn Roesener
Mother's anguish bleeds from the body of a mother's son dying Through the stream of a mother's soul tears turn to pools, pools into streams. Streams into torrents wretched life wasted, wretched cry wasted - wretched Anguish is the sound of the torrent through her torn soul. Raging in the ears of those who didn't know. Still don't know. Won't ever know. Son's anguish sneaks out the back alley, down the lane, out to the highway The sound of grief and failure suppressed, the soul pushed down the asphalt way motor off the crunch and pop of loose gravel its only voice. Until its final grief explodes, pent-up breath, becomes the sound of the machine jamming through gears The empty night highway has no more dreams, running away Rider's soul flutters, torn, to the pavement behind, Anguish is the fading sound of anger, rounding the distant corner, gone. Not holding back, never looking back. Never. Looking back. Father's anguish never spoken, never open always borne, never born, bears the pain of mother's anguish bears the blame for children's anguish wears the sound of anguish in his eyes no one hears the scream of such pain as no single soul can bear it flutters in the wind without a sound like a drum-skin, torn. Anguish is the sound of his silence Beaten, in the presence of hope. Torn, in the presence of pride. Soundless in the presence of joy.