The Crockery Cracks
With the silence of sorrow screaming continually,
the music of the moment a weeping cacophony,
they watch our tearful stares from our musical chairs
with hearts hollow and broken, dumbfounded and numb.
He falls to his knees, this last prize scant pleasure,
as we run and hug the life out of this treasure,
while clutching and clawing our salty tears flowing
he whispers softly to me, â€˜Look after them sonâ€™.
In the dusk of this dead evening we grieve as he leaves.
Then we jolt and we scream and we all spin around,
to the soul splitting sound of the crockery thrown down,
Mumâ€™s banshee wailing our senses assailing,
in our cowering cuddle, we wait for her to succumb.
Then in a stuttering blubbering agony she comes,
around my broken angels I wrap my scrawny arms,
my heavy heart still heaving consoling all their grieving
innocence incensed by the mantle of the man I become.
The world turns and in time all wounds heal.
Yet the tears of all the years canâ€™t quite quell my fears
and in startled surprise I might drop a cup and hear,
every time the crockery cracks, instantly transported back
to the sorrow screaming, to the night that broke our home.
Inside the man I am the boy I was still screams.