My mother is dead.
You can’t tell by looking at her,
But she’s gone.

A joyful, proud, strong woman
Full of charm and finesse,
Has been replaced,
By a cold and callous shell.

I tell myself she’ll get better.
She’s just going through a phase.
She’s a prisoner
Waiting for parole.

But in the middle of the night,
I know
She’s not coming back.

Marc Cohen