Poetry: For Amy

She was raised to be a museum piece
but she lit up the room
a masterpiece of joy
reflecting your goodness.

The rooms she grew up in
were well dusted.
She sat on antiques
with her sister
and kept quiet
in a place that was already
too quiet.

Drugs made her loud
enough to scream
the home she grew up in
into having never happened.

Needles delivered
the only safe places
she could find…the fine points
of civility
have a price
that her parent’s learned of
too late and much too well.

She found her voice
late in life
flourished like the lotus
shined everywhere
lost her needles
and found moments of peace.

Until that one day.
To everyone’s surprise.
Her.  The needles. A hotel room in another city away.

If you want children,
do not want them as ornaments
as furniture
as accompaniments
do not want them
as props for your socialite gatherings
where you talk about boarding schools,
so that you can feel
well arranged.

Amy, when you woke up
on the other side
everyone that knew you here
wondered how you got there.
Neil Young and I sing “Needle and The Damage Done”
everytime, and wonder still.  Miss you still too.

About skymeetingtheground

Healer, poet, author, yogi, single father...outdoorsy guy.
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