The number of days I can't believe
My child has gone without real love
And I have had to push and shove
And fight for bread so that he may breathe
I conceive
That my child cannot survive
If even I cannot thrive
So I trek to the dirty brown road
The road that hovers over the moat
And think about life
And how we may survive
If he stays alive
So I hesitate
But then realize fate
In pain I stare into the rush
Of water, fast - but remarkably hushed
Sobbing, I toss him in
Wrapped in blankets, face no longer a grin
I look away
And pray
That he will go to a better place
For now in the rapids, with fish he will race
So I turn
To go home and now I have learned
The cost of life
All the strife
And cry
But do not die
And live
But do not thrive
It has been thirty-eight years
Since he was thrown from that ridge
And now that memory is just
Water under the bridge