Actions shouted before the siren
Said his fist to her cheek.
And alarmed my eyes to see the burden
Of my mother in her need.
A wail: sharp like the prick of a blade to my earlobes,
What good will tears do? I ask them as they are falling down.
Down: Crumpled. Folded, balled up like yarn,
Is my mother in her ways,
My stubborn legs seem void to movement,
So I stay a static voyeur to this scene,
I fly floating to her on wings made of adrenaline.
Stand, Fly: Fall. Fell to pieces.
Then the Cherry coaled flame dying in his eyes,
The pit of his stomache wrenched with the force of his own internal fist: with regret.
But his pride would not help her off the floor,
No, that would be her own, and my arms.
But, wait? Why-
To feel what he felt before he acted.
The rage coiled like a snake, beyond just words anymore,
The role played out in a scene:
Then the sudden release, the film retreating from his eyes to see,
He just threw away everything he ever wanted.
The feel of my father and his pay. And pay he shall.