A Mother's Note

April 7, 2009
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She wanted to talk to the sky
and sought arms of comfort
crying warm tears of past hurting;
burning her cheeks, her neglected soul
—a calling of her voice: Mother give me a sign!
A crinkled piece of paper bore her mother’s note;
dark smudged ink told her intentions.
The dark dictator smothers her;
—No future.
Neither growth nor bloom;
the question pierced her mind.
To press on,
she chose freedom.

The messy path of choice.

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