Mother dotes on child, beauteous purity,

provides things one cannot give; loving security,

synchronized heartbeats, together they intertwine,

they travel the same path, same fate, same line,

full of bliss, a luminescent smile cascades,

together they both give, together they both fade.

The child lives on, past the ingenuous  stage,

Animosity is clear, an atmosphere of  sheer rage,

the child has moved on, the maternal angel has not,

for she still makes her food, daughter leaves it to rot.

Loneliness can eat away at a person's altruistic heart,

and the mother stares at a frame, a picture, broken part by part.

At the crippling, feeble and worn old age,

the child comes back, in her hand, a tattered page,

she lifts her mother's palm and slips it between the creases,

hearts once again intertwine, until one heart ceases.

The waif, no longer a child, now has one of her own,

the corroded page written, by the wind, it gets blown,

the woman opens her door to an invigorating sight,

with juvenile handwriting, her eyes collide,

worn fingers from time and from  pain,

opens up the letter, as words fall like rain,

a simple statement,  but a poignant one at that,

nostalgia and  devotion had lay on the top of her mat,

as three, single letters, audaciously slap her, center of the face,

'I love you', a sentiment of the heart, saccharine as sugary lace,

thus, when a parent's presence is lost and gone,

in their child's heart, their presence lives on.

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Aha, does this count as a ballot?

I took a break from my regular style of writing and tried this one, where I attempted to tell a story within a small rhyme.

I also tried to put a lot of emotion into this.

How did you find it? Like it?