The Season of Treason

An attempt to lay a ghost to rest that ends in failure.

There is a child in my head.  I know -
you thought she was dead but
your habits made time stand still.

It is frighteningly common
so we are told - to be
frozen, to be caught in a
freeze frame, to be stuck
at that point of bodyshock.

You will say you were a victim
not she not I not we.  You
cannot help it.
You aim for pity
in this game
we play.

We played for two years -
I count the days and I
wait for her self to return.

I did not know she was gone.
I did not know she would never come back.
I did not know you had stolen her
and in the stealing there had been a death.

Did you?

Gripped by unnatural lust
you must, I believe, you must
lie sometimes in a pool of tears.

Do you?

She is forever five
now.
She could not grow up or
grow past your season of
treason and play.

You made her hateful.
You made her hate me.
You made her dead while alive.
You, you are always looming
large in her eye.
You died and yes you can die
and your strength does not diminish.

She is quiet now after
the years
of screaming.
No one heard no one cared no one came.
Thunder loud tears
bring no help.

She is quiet now.

 

© Morney Wilson