Thursday, April 9, 2015


World Wide Web

As mother kissed the steering wheel,
She bit her lip.  The red
And salty fluid gushed, but calm
Replaced the mortal dread.

The car decelerated, stopped
On shoulder.  Glass with blood
Designed a lengthy spider web.
The other car, a thud

Against a pole.  The acrid scent
Of smoke polluted air.
The bodies bent like question marks,
An answered final prayer.

I thought I saw a shadow dance.
I witnessed mother leave.
I heard the roll of gurney’s wheels.
The rush began with heave.

Hallucinations visit mom.
The rhythmic beeps alert
The staff about a pressure change.
A parent lies inert.

Another one did disappear
From family life by choice.
The doctors look away.  I try
To scream, but have no voice.

The nurses look away as well.
I walk through walls with ease.
I hear a doctor diagnose
But never cure disease.

She said addiction is a foe
Who masquerades as friend.
I see a nurse.  She is my mom;
I think I will pretend.

I bring my doll.  I hide in air.
My mother never smiled.
I am adopting stranger mom. 
She won’t neglect her child.

Her layered hair is dark and frames
Her pretty oval face.
My curly hair is dirty blonde.
The past, I will erase:

A mom who never slaps my face
Is all I dream about.
I watch her squeeze a lemon dry.
The drops collect on trout.

I watch my brother eat like slob.
He slips a piece to dog.
A television soon provides
The only dialogue.

I watch my father walk the dog.
The skinny leash retracts
With press of button.  Squirrels move
And crazy Dash reacts.

He lunges, growls, and swipes at air.
His paws extend like hook
Of boxer cornered deep in ring.
He gives me startled look.

His master tries to silence bark
By tugging collar hard.
I laugh as beast advances, tries
To bite my leotard.

I’m soft as cotton candy rolls.
His teeth are onyx hard.
He tries to lick me, whimpers, runs,
And hides in neighbor’s yard.

Our home is colored butterscotch.
I love to crawl in bed
With mom and dad.  I like the books
On file my mom has read.

She has a magic made machine
That shows a book, but hides
The spine.  The brick and mortar stores
Will close, my dad derides.

He reads archaic paper books.
He likes the musty scent
With yellow page and book which has
A spine that can be bent.                                                                                                

My spineless mother made a mess
Of life.  She loved her highs.
She hated lows and ruined our deaths.
I’m sick of all the lies.

I watch my mother go to work.
I try to tug her sleeve.
This time, I touch her scrub.  She fells
The pull.  I want to leave.

I watch my father go to work.
His focus comes and goes.
He types with steady clack, but pile
Like poison ivy grows.

I watch my brother go to school.
He’d rather be at home.
He talks in class, is bored, and draws
A sketch that features gnome.

I go to cemetery gate.
I jump the iron fence.
I find my mother’s grave and spit.
She sees the consequence.

I watch a fly in spider web
And wonder where’s the light.
My mother had the right of way,
But never way of right!

©2015 Ryan Tilley

About the Author Ryan Tilley

Ryan Tilley was born in New Orleans, grew up in Baton Rouge, and was graduated from LSU.  He lives in central Florida with his wife, son, and dog.  Ryan has been writing poetry about death and rebirth in rhyme and meter for 30 years and composed the sequel to The Raven on February 2, 2006 while being unaware at that time of the significance of February 2, 1847 in Poe family history.   His only published book is A Prophet's Burden: The Raven Returns.

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