Tulips

It's about tulips, duh

Tulips (2009)

My mother’s sweet serenade

Sounded like the wind.

Like a Siren’s song

That was softly sung,

Flowing from her 2 lips;

Which my father ripped off

And violently dropped and

Softly fluttered to the ground;

Whispering on its way down:

“I love you. I love you not”

My mother never spoke again.

She was 17 and I was 2 then;

Alone and left to make sense

Of my mother’s eccentric message

That I heard blooming in tulips.

So everyday I would go and pick

But never heard anything more than

“She loves me. She loves me not”

Thoughts of being alone

Echoed in my subconscious

As I searched for flowers

And found comfort in fields

Covered with blades of grass

And those thorny roses that

Always seem to prick your hand;

Wondering how many scars I needed

To become a man.

It made me wonder about my dad;

Did he ever roam fields of grass

Ripping petals in half and shout:

“She loves me! She loves me not!”

Or did my father only seek

Tulips that couldn’t speak;

The one’s that bloomed

In absence from the Sun?

Did my father always run?

Run from field to field

And pick apart flowers;

Never taking the time to

Just listen to them talk

And learn their sweet song

Because he ripped their lips off.

Leaving me to stand in the garden

Trying to sew petals and leaves.

Gathering roses together and

Coaxing flowers to sing

So I can hear my mother’s song

And one day listen to my wife talk

As she sweetly says:

“I love you. I love you, a lot.”

Reviews

[Angel Bird]

An abysmally deep write. So much hurt here in your words and between the lines. Eyes and a young soul that have seen too much...
Deeply touching and very well penned. It even conjures images - some of a cruel nature. I hope you'll find the answers you are seeking for one day.

[.]

This is wonderful, very lovely