ORPHAN

ORPHAN. The word itself is distressing:
child, a detached leaf helplessly tossed
on the chaotic up draft
from the searing flames of loss
that will eventually consume the tiny heart.

RAWNESS. Death's pathetic victim
with her gaping wound that leads straight to the Soul,
wherein lies only agony and frozen dreams
of lost love: a severed bond that inwardly bleeds
and bleeds into nothing at all.

PITEOUS. Ariadne sits quietly observing
from the centre of her apocalyptic spokes.
Black is the cloak She drapes
protectively around the little heart so grieving
for the warmth of family unity.

HARDSHIP. Oh for just one more moment:
a Mother's arms to offer physical comfort,
to nurture and wrap in unconditional love -
instead of the cold guardianship of strangers
that leaves her emotionally starving.

ADVERSITY. Constant fight for attention.
The promise of care is full of holes
that the less robust fall through
into depression's infinite darkness,
where life's meaning lies only in oblivion.

NUMBER. This is the hardest part. She is
no more than a number on a computer screen.
A number, without identity or history,
nor any place in society to claim
the yearned-for title of daughter.



Yet, sometimes in dreams a gentle voice
calls her name in the dead of night.
And her heart begins to race -
could Mother-love really breach the abyss,
or is it just the echo of her own deep need?

This is her greatest hope. The hope that her beloved Mother
may still be there in some form and trying hard to reach her,
like a bird with nest plundered: fluttering frantically
against overcrowded dormitory window,
constantly watching over her precious offspring...

for the rest of her time on Earth.