At seventeen, still as caring and gentle as
ever, you are my son, my walking cloud, I
feel every pain and woe, but these things
did come to me later, and I was filled with
so much daily obligations, it all became a
part of my daily life, it was hard for me to
sense your troubles, and you my walking
cloud had no one there that night, I left
you to lay alone on the sofa, so tall, silent
Past midnight, and still no sleep pervaded
you, until a paternal figure came home late
that night, to find you crying in the night
He tried he did to get me up, but sleep still
clung on me, by morning, he revealed your
devastated dilema that never dawned on me
a contemplated suicide was on your mind,
a girl on your mind, so troubled that you
kept it all inside, 'til you cried, and shook.
Troubles will be troubles if you define them,
they'll still be there by morning, still you fill
yourself with unease, overloading inside.
Talk and walk your troubles to us, Walking,
Cloud, not like drinking it all away or drugs,
this you know, you don't drink or do drugs.
A thousand stars may flick and fleck, how
we must have told you a million times four
Words are at times hard, yet good for you
I will give you hard words, even soft words
I will comfort you just the same, but you
must understand your hurts are my hurts.
You can draw me away, tuck it quietly into
my heart and soul, and we'll walk it through,
through thick and thin, crying in your rains.
To the point of ending your life, but the life
that has been given you will never be again,
your little brother is a warrior on the court.
He's like a shadow that follows you through
all the swinging doors of sun and living, and
he's a part of your life, he'll need you there.
We've always told you, ending your life is
not the answer, and when the fires die in
your soul, it will be the end of my life too.
© Rena Scribe 2009