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  • Writer's pictureChad Coburn



gently pouring down my cheek like a rainy day.

No where to go, no one will know.

How much farther on this journey?

For how much time has passed?

Like a child, I want to crawl up in a ball and cry for my mother.

Abandoned, lost and cold.

But I must keep going.

The snow blowing in my face,

freezing my tears,

worsening my fears.

A house, off in the distance; am I safe at last?

Or will I be dead in my tracks

Each step gradually feels more timely than the last as I approach this house.

A figure, in the window, reminds me of someone I once knew.

Broken glass, their door opens, with their arms wide open.

My mother?

For my dreams have messed with my reality:

she did not abandon me,

for I have abandoned myself.

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