Mourn, You Child

by Melissa A. Chappell / November 3rd, 2024

Chipped tooth roads
with following
crosshatch towns.
Was there a moment
of punctiliar silence
before the end began?
The mortars crash,
creating the primal
chaos, but there is
no light,
no town,
no road
only a child born
to a mother whose
breasts will never
give milk.
Mourn, you child,
for light will never
brush your eyes.
Cry out, you child,
for justice you will
never raise your fist.
Weep, you child,
for you will never
behold the lesser lights.
Sleep, you child,
for night has come,
at this, your time to die.
The world is finished.
Awaken, you child,
you child of morning,
for you will rise
on iridescent wings
into a brave new sky.

Melissa A. Chappell is a writer from South Carolina who is much inspired by nature, spirituality, and social justice issues which particularly speak to her. She has published in The Orchards Poetry Review, Autumn Sky Daily, Blaze Vox, among others. Her latest book is Remnant Day (Transcendent Zero Press, 2023). She hopes one day to travel to Spain in the spring. Read other articles by Melissa A..

This article was posted on Sunday, November 3rd, 2024 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.