The Old Worn Out Wooden Bench Poem by Mad Gone

The white pale blanket covered the newly springing glass,
while hopes and dreams lay unravelled far below.

Time that rushed too frantic past, now silently stands still,
with words expressed overhead, but now least relevant.

Plans waiting on the sidelines of the playing fields,
memories contained within the fading memory box.

To sit upon the furlong and forgotten wooden bench,
while staring bleakly out upon the uneven piece of land,

This piece of soil could surely be put to some better use,
maybe it could produce some more of that forbidden fruit?

Each spring will come and go, for some it will be far too slow,
others will find it hard and fast and struggle for their breath.

No bird flying over head, no squirrel that dared to show its face,
Dogs and children have stopped their shouting and their barking.

Even ants not longer scurry in the passage of this silent rhyme,
the busy road but feet away, have all retired too, for the day.

But sounds are endlessly running through this place,
the place where no man can ever hope to reach,

Only those partakers within this given piece of time,
play out there rehearsed and now so familiar lines.

The last moment of goodbye, no one really could know why,
the silly conversations now, rebound and create the sound.

If one had known it was to be my last encore,
I would not have said those words, as if to bore.

Just to be a better mum was all I had chose to be,
but even that I was sure I could not no longer hope to succeed.

For that piece of me had gone, in lay here buried,
buried in this god forsaken soil, eight feet below my numbing feet.

The child who had adorned an adults cloak, now lay underfoot.
This today, this Mothers Day I come, in some sort of worn out hope,

That today will be the day I grow to understand, or comprehend.
Just why he felt his life he had to…

End