The Lost Year


There used to be a sign out front,
Indicating the willingness to be let go.
She held on tight and kicked the sign
Until her feet bled; blow by blow.

Pictures were hidden, lies were told,
Covered up by smiles and smells.
Beds were made, windows opened wide,
Excuses to rationalize the quells.

She was there, always there,
Putting the baby to sleep,
He was there, with gold dust in his hair,
Pretending to count the sheep.

In the basement it was found,
No traces but the machine knew,
Close the windows, draw the shades,
Turn off the air and darken the room.

It’s time to pay the man for one more thing,
What’s one more thing this time?
There hasn’t been color, there hasn’t been sun,
Mother and child only speak in rhyme.

The sign outside draws panic,
Draws dead leaves, piles of snow and some stone.
Rust collects on the outer portion,
Wanderers pass by, messages on the phone.

The lost year was only hers to lose.
He made her lose all that she had.
She struggled with this sense of loss before,
Once for her childhood, once for her dad.

This is where they lost their friend,
This is where they cried.
This is where the dream took form.
This is where her hope and trust had died.

This is where the child took steps,
Took steps so delicate and proud,
This is where he fell out of love,
This is where she became lost in the crowd.

There used to be a sign out front,
It changed faces a couple of times.
Bury the statue underneath,
Along with the sunglasses and crimes.

There used to be a man inside,
He changed faces only one time.
The siding is shaking, the foundation is cracked,
Walls covered with mold, musk and vine.

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