A Tribute to my son, Paul
By Marque Henson
One week’s improvement wiped away by the sweep of
a bad day.
One year’s progress erased by the next six months of
Caught in a battle to free one’s self from a bad
dream extended over months.
Differences glitter along the branches of life like
a spider’s web spun in an
The patterns woven in an unseemly trap destine
A small boy struggles to break free from the ties
Never to break free caught in a memory spread
No wonder he doesn’t matter, for months he didn’t
New wounds will tear at his heart hardening it
against those who offer false
hopes and dreams.
Dreams that are dreamed for years dashed by
forces he doesn’t understand.
A mother weeps as the boy cries in her arms.
No wonder nothing seems to matter to him anymore.
Time has been an enemy this year, stealing the last
of his faith in those who
profess to help.
No wonder the small boy clings to his mother
dreading going to that place.
How will the boy soar among the clouds when shackled
by mistakes unforgotten?
In his quiet place among the highest bowers, he
reaches for his dreams and
for a brief moment, freedom is his.