The same old faces

lit by the stained glass of an empty church

 My Grandmother died today.

 She choked on her own spite,

 Her shoulders bowed, and fingers tipped with claws.

 

 The voice in my mother’s head

 As she looked that woman full in the face

 Threw heavy lines on her brow, tangled her hands.

 

 It threatened to overflow.

 She, too, had a daughter

 With eyes like a spark.

 

 She could see a future,

 of history repeated as girls

 burned their dreams and grew into their mother’s faces.

 

 She made the journey on her knees

 To the church, trembling like

 A wind-blown lake.

 

 The stained lights struck her chest,

 Her shame,

 The winking cross around her neck,

 Tightened. 

Reviews

[Tetse A'roma]

It started so well!
Then It kinda lost me towards the end....

[Gejodi]

Did you mean spit or spite i assumed spite....This too is a strong message what baggage we carry with us no matter how we try cant be removed I guess we can only hope to minimize the effect it has on others
Nice poem!

[ohsograceful]

definitely spite. It's certainly a pattern, thanks :)