She was passed roughly through life,
Fumbling down a narrow concrete stairwell that leads to a regrettable death
She grew up in one abusive household
And married into another
She is passive and submissive bowing down to the strength and superiority of the psychopathic “man of the house”
Her soul is a flickering yellow aura located deep in the confines of her aging body
Where no one will think to look for her
Her strength is a Popsicle on the sidewalk
Withering steadily to nothing solid in the hot Floridian sun
Her eyes are callused by remorse and scorn
Her heart has taken repetitious verbal beatings and is quickly becoming too timid to beat out loud
Her beautiful humor is now sarcasm masking the truthful sting of her tormented existence
Every move is provoked
Every tear beckoned for by his hurtful projection
She is locked in her own tragic life
And the worst part is that she and she alone holds the key
But he has warned her not to use it
She is another beautiful and wonderful woman
Sheltered from the world by a horrible man
The oldest and saddest story in the book.

07/21/2011

Author's Note: sadly about my adoptive and amazing mother who's beauty has been shadded by an overbearing husband not allowing it to shine through.

Posted on 07/21/2011
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Wilson