The Tariff Of Deviating Slugs

 In the eventide air, she walks destitute, filled to capacity with pain and sorrow;

As she passes many people stare, their looks are as cold

As the late night atmosphere. Shuffling along, curious “Will there be a tomorrow”?

The answer remains unclear – all hope has been sold…

…Into a bottle, which she grips tight; it`s her loving baby

Who`ll rock her to sleep tonight. Her stomach is growling aloud,

Roaring to be filled – to be fed. There`s a chance – maybe

As she asks other souls for bread, no longer proud…

…This emotion died long ago, along with the life of her only child.

Previous post-traumatic effects began to show, and then she also lost her mind;

Since then she woefully roamed, appearing more savage and wild.

Her hair is no longer combed, but there is no ferocity in her eyes, any can find.

Only her broken heart – replaying the sounds of paramedics and gunshots,

The ripping of a struggling life torn apart. The doctors would explain

The cause of deaths was due to both: surgical complications and blood clots.

Their last living breath, became the final fatal wound to her brain.

“Get a job” a man scornfully yelled, as she collapsed sullenly on a church stoop;

Her well-worn clothes smelled, as she silently drank.

Utterly ignored except by the man; whose vicious words, were that night’s soup;

In her inebriated pernicious state, her mind went blank.

In her destroyed dreams, she saw her son`s five year old face;

And she felt the impact of his father’s dying yells, in her dreamscape.

She was awoke to sunshine, by an unseen poke;

And she dropped the bottle, which shattered and broke.

Her God`s name, she would thankfully invoke, as her eyes joyfully soaked;

Invisible angels left her large banknote, and covered her in a warm cloak.

Composed By: A. D.