the toy is broken
all it does
it plays the same one tune
the one about
the love it had
that it lost way too soon
except, that love
was never real
it was a puppet show —
but toys: they just get played with, cause
i guess that’s all
they know
I don’t do this very often, but, I want to comment on the poem, above.
My daughter is in the next room trying to talk herself out of filing for the divorce that everyone in the world can see she needs to file for. He has left her, demeaned her, controlled her – but still she clings to memories of someone who I’m not sure ever really was.
It’s heartbreaking, really. For her and her son.
I’m so sorry, Owen
🙁
Owning a diagnosis/prognosis means a long up and down processing. So complicated. My thoughts are with you all.
😢
The end is always the hardest part of those things. I am sorry she is going through this and that you are having to watch someone you love go through it to.
Thank you, Holly. 😥
Five and a half years later I happen across this Owen. I hope that your daughter and grandson have had a few great years since you wrote this poem. Give them a hug from me if you’re allowed!
I am and I will!
Thank you.