I walked past that crib,
felt the world pull down,
my body remembered a loss,
a gown never worn.
The room spun,
echoes of a life that never was,
my milk dried up
like rivers in the dust.
Those lullabies cut through,
sharper than glass,
each note a reminder
of what couldn’t last.
I fold these tiny clothes,
each fold a silent weep,
laid down in drawers
like flowers for the deep.
Every whisper of a child,
a phantom pain,
in the nursery,
where my heart’s refrain.
I cradle empty air,
the weight unbearable,
in this haunted room,
every joy, untenable.
I’ve tried to pack away
these relics of hope,
but they grip like the hands
of a drowning man’s rope.
The smell of unslept sheets,
the unrocked chair,
in the still of the night,
I find despair.
How I longed to hear the cry, the coos,
instead, this silence feeds my blues.
I touch the crib,
my hands tremble with grief,
in its bars, I find no relief.
So I’ll lock this door,
let cobwebs claim
this cradle of sorrow,
this bearer of bane.
Maybe one day I’ll return,
face what’s been stowed,
but tonight, it’s just me
and this lonely road.