Pieta

Pieta

Annette Clemens

Poetry

My son lay
dying
in my arms,
draped over
my bloody arms,
flowing red
from shrapnel
wounds
in his broken
body.

I lay crying
from watching
her son
dying
on a 20 foot
screen.
His body marked
from fresh torn
pieces of flesh
removed
with the leather
tail,
so cruel.
So cruel.
His wracked body
scarred by deep
rivers of pain,

reminding me
of my son
laying,
and dying,
in my arms