Her Mother's Things


My mother used to have her mother's things.

Art, collectables and such.

She use to have these things,

But yesterday is gone.


Now, she does not have these things,

A ceramic rooster and precious art.

Now, these things are no more

Belonging to another.


Her stepfather was another,

Who captured these thing while gone,

To church as it was

To worship and think of her despair.


You see her mom has 'rolled into the deep'

Never again to wake.

Gone by pouring rain

Single soul of life claimed.


Gone are the things,

Precious to the deep

Never to be seen again.

Gone up in futile flame

In tornado's fishbowl.


Gone are  the memories of material things

To bask in flashing lens

And visions from her daughter's head.

Now and only understood

As things in her mother's eye.


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