God is evil, mommy.
A mother,
shutting the gates to what could be a flood,
holds the hand of her innocent child.
It was not His fault,
she relayed to her daughter.
He is not evil.
Was she assuring the little one’s glimmer of hope
or trying to convince herself
that it was not His fault
that she was now leaving His world.
This symbol she has looked up to
in so many moments of despair-
Was this darkness
concocted by Him?
Who shall she turn to,
the hand of innocence
or the hand of trust?
But was it still trust?
Where does one go from there?
Inquisitive thoughts raced through her tired mind.
She let go of the tired one’s small hand
and bid her a good night’s rest
and kissed her on the forehead
as the little one was being escorted,
crying, and pleading…
the IV slowly dripped into her pulsing veins
as she took her last few breaths,
and instead of looking up to the stars,
she whispered to the girl,
I won’t let Him hurt you*
and with a hint of a smile,
the mother slipped into a deep,
deep slumber.