For My Mother

In the years that have led to the past few days,
I've known not Happiness.
In the early days of my age,
I knew not Happiness.
A withered tree in a field of pain
Blooms misery, then blooms again!
All brought forth a whole new pain: Sickness. Nausea.
(All burned within my brain.)
The sound of Bells; Fall is near.
'Tis music that I hear, I swear!
Some disfigured shadow; pulled apart...
This child suffers, and suffers well,
The sickness of a lonely heart.
Rejuvination just in time
For the resting of some weary heart.