The Return of Inspiration

With every silent year that passes I am reminded by every grey hair and every tiny wrinkle that the spark she holds beneath the bones in her delicate skin will fade until the light in her heart will completely fade. It should be too soon for me to see only empty pools of blue when I look into her eyes. Eyes that have seen the darkest of days, and the brightest of nights. She's become the ghost of a woman that I saw as my only shield to protect me from the thing's I feared. As my anxiety has grown stronger she has become transparent, no longer the steel wall she built using only the strength in her deepest instincts that only a mother could ever possess. About six years ago, our blossoming field of flowers grew a tree. We grew a tall trunk, bursting full of branches with every new person who entered our lives. Her branch continued one way and mine continued another. The hollowness within her limbs that I once filled was replaced by a flick of her wrist and binding a legal document. Marriage and children became her only desire while I was still left with questions about why one of my chickens had abandoned the egg.

We grew apart, we are growing apart. My twigs grew together to create the being who is occuping my body, the fiend who is controlling my mind, my anger. My fragile sprout grew shaken from the very start, only to develop into something I can't sometimes control. She was there to watch the fire in my eyes evolve, and offered me things that could only be given by men in white coats and patent leather shoes. No capsule can quiet the rage that burns inside of my mind some days. Just like before when no man could seperate our roots that grew intertwined.

Now that her petals are falling and her stem is wilting, she needs me to lift the weight from above her falling sky that has not seen sun in months. But now the time has come for me to leave and begin my own bed of roses.