Memories.
Whispers.
Tears.
Listening deeper now.
Listening to my inner fears.

A grave gown
A mystery unsaid
A tear falls down,
my daughter is dead.

A thudding in my chest,
seems so foreign
so forgotten, so fake
Who was able to choose?
Who was it, my baby, did take?

A mother, they called me.
A mother was my crest and name.
Now it is a mockery,
I am no longer the same.

White Roses.
They are all I see,
For I can only see
What was given then taken from me.
The murder that took place,
The hysterical shakes,
As I ran and I ran,
Still nothing changed.

All that is left behind,
is ache, is pain
and horror
as I lay upon her bedroom floor.
These sobs and these screams,
do they really come from me?

I feel like I am floating,
Like I am dead,
but cannot be free.
These chains on my ankles and wrists,
locked tight because my child ceased to exist,
Can only be unlocked
with the laughter of my child,
with the blessing of her smile.

A whisper comes on the wind,
Suicide?
I shake my head to that pathetic whim.
It would be too easy, too good,
for a mother who did not do as a mother should.
I left her behind
I left her alone,
Now I sit here in her room,
Just me and my sorrow.

Hollow, Hollow regret,
Why do you not let me forget?
I suppose the strings of destiny are set.
For I will always be internally dead,
unless I see my child living again.

White roses.
White roses on a grave.
I see them now,
and inside I cave.
White roses.
White roses for the dead.
But not for me,
Not just yet.
For my child, for my baby.
White roses,
White roses are set.