She didn’t do well by them, but she tried her best
And was never so proud that she wouldn’t confess
Her shortcomings plentiful, but her love was present
But her children grew older with scorn and resentment
Then came the grandchildren, a purpose for existence
Fresh minds to fill with anecdotes and reminiscence
But her children grew impatient spending time with her
Weary of her presence, she was socially abjured
Completely ignoring her, like a vile stain
Harming several bonds for their own personal gain
Lonesome, worried, and miserable as well
Solitary confinement in a planet-sized cell
And then one day, she was no more
Her body found sprawled upon the floor
She’d practiced her last dramatic words for years
Yet, when the time came, there were no ears
So much to contribute, bottled away
Even before death, her lips were decayed
And when her family saw her corpse
They showed no sadness and no remorse
Like dying trees in autumn, yellow and red
She’s appreciated the most now that she’s dead
Poem: Trees In Autumn
