Spilt Milk.A Poem by Thomas Fitzgerald
A play on life that sometimes work.
Those digits that touched against yours now adorn,
sweet gold I've longed for since times of fun,
A time I lay dead with overpowering tasks,
of work and life alone you yielded to run.
Brushing hairs left soft in moisture and skin,
bleeding souls quake through times and states,
A smile that lights a stirring heart to fair,
leading those broken to a heavens locked gates.
Piece by piece and kiss by kiss you take,
a child and turn him to man no longer alone,
For he needs nothing but your hand in his,
you seated him against odds and ends throne.
Feel free to mock those happier than you,
a past screams that I join your bitter ilk,
A kin to state the present and never to us,
no point in crying over a little spilt milk.
© 2012 Thomas Fitzgerald
Wexford, Leinster, Ireland
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