Ready for a sandstorm like no other
Holding onto my only brother’s hand
He leans on in, whispers in my over-eager, untarnished ear: “All will be grand!”
Throw me to the wolves and I will come back leading the pack
It does help when you’ve seen… what’s entirely black
And far beyond
A tragic pond with no reflection
Wasteful genuflections
Dire projections
We did indeed need a few too many interjections
Or else we had a case of lost sensations in the making
Placing his palms over the cusp of my every prayer
A cold shoulder to all of those boastful naysayers
When what’s black dilutes itself perfectly
A rather glorious rainbow usurps
Full of fear
Endless tellings
Untidy bringings
Tears, memorable-for-all-of-the-wrong-reasons
Tiny – we really should never have been here
Nearer our mother’s bosom, no such prison
What she could have chosen
A fine line between what’s right and what can be oh so bad
My brother and I – turns out we are relatively glad of the bad times
We now toast our fine life aside Chardonnay way dating back to 1999 – the very day our mother died
We do miss her, but a stout no thank you to any kind of rewind