Poetry by Naomi Adams

I came home late from work in those days. I didn't mean to neglect her, but I know you don't believe that. Her own bed was ruffled, the covers strewn carelessly to the floor; the remnants of unsettled sleep. I found my daughter along the hall however, in the room her mother and I used to share. She'd woken from some disturbed image, I envisioned, and walked searching for her mother, like she had done as a girl. She now laid with the demeanor of an angel, her hair enveloping the pillow. She slept, knees under her chin, perhaps dreaming of the security of her dead mother's womb. Perhaps, she had soaked the pillow with tears. Perhaps, she was yearning to hold onto whatever she could find. I hope she found what she was looking for, curled foetally on my wife's side of the bed

You'll be pleased to hear, I did not wake her from her slumber. We all grieve in our own way. She was not coping so well-and you hold me accountable. I'm not to blame. I can't be. She looks so like her mother. As i stood beside her that night, I half closed my eyes; peering through my slits;I could almost make out she was older....I opened my eye's agian. The moon danced on her face, teasing me with reminiscence of the sweaty, sticky, starry night of my baby's conception. Ilove her and she looks so like her mother.

They had a relationship that, if I was more of a man, I would have been envious of. It was beyond sex or love or even words. Gestures, looks, eyes, could be read like some innate Babylonian inscription; an ancient language formed for only the two of them. She knew it hurt for me to look at her-it made the loss of it all, much more real. I watched her once, in secret, standing affront a mirror. For twenty minutes she stood transcendentally,staring back at herself and I stood, unable to free her, unable even to speak. Until at last, she motioned to the reflection, her fingers tracing the flat surface as if invoking the spirits; the lone tear that glistened over her eye and scurried down the mountian of her face, was the most potent magic. Don't look at me like that! What could I have done? But still, you are formidable. And who do I deceive but myself? I could have held her, I could have told her I loved her, I could have rocked her gently until the demons subsided. But I let them grow and they sent her slowly mad.

The house is still now. The voices that plague me;quiet. Can you forgive me, my love? No answer. But I know where the answers lie; in the depths of an enigmatic dream, where the demons may ravish my flesh but where my soul will be emancipated. I can hear her chanting some angelic melody and I am mesmerized. But will she devour me like a vengeful Fate? Can you forgive me, my love? I crawl under the blankets and curl-up small. Will I find what I am looking for, on my wife's side of the bed?

CLICK HERE FOR PAGE (2) OF MY WORKS

My Favorites

Fox-FM Radio Melbourne.
World Enviroment Page
My Nieces Homepage
My Nephews Homepage

CLICK HERE FOR MORE OF MY WORKS

Next Skip Next Next 5 Previous Back 2 Random Join!
This Poetry People Site is created by Poetry by Naomi Harris.

This Poetry site is owned by Naomi Harris Naomi Harris. Want to join the Poetry Ring?

[ Previous 5 Sites | Skip Previous | Previous | Next | Skip Next | Next 5 Sites | Random Site | List Sites ]

This Ring of Poetry site is owned by Naomi Harris. Want to join the Ring of Poetry? Ring of Poetry created by: Kim Strob & Lisa Nerone
[Prev] [Skip Previous] [Next] [Skip Next] [Next 5]