Our dead children

Crying for the children

washed up with

the moon’s waxing

and waning with the wind.

Becoming a still life,

the artist has

cried his canvas.

The paint presented

before his easel

is the innocent blood

of our loved ones,

let go too soon.

Drifting on the tide

and floating in the ether,

a bitter notion

claws upon their flesh,

and a teardrop stains our eyes.

5 thoughts on “Our dead children

  1. nice one Jon – reads kinda gothicky in my mind and makes me think I’m standing on the cliff edge next to Whitby Abbey with my easel under my arm looking down at all them poor washed up kiddos – which is probably a million miles from what was in your mind lol

    Liked by 1 person

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