Pinot Grigio

She drinks.
Justifying all the mistakes of her yesteryears.
Trying to drown out the sorrows,
Of a past that won't seem to let go.
 
I watch.
With a broken heart.
For this is all I can do,
As I watch the gentle weeping,
Within the sadness of your own despair.
 
The kind that only cheap wine,
Can seemingly choose to remedy,
Upon woven illusions of grandeur. 
 
I mourn for you, mother,
For the person who you have become.
 
The kind of mourning that a small babe makes,
As it cries out for its mother,
To be held within her tight cocoon.
 
My dearest Mother,
I wish I could take away,
All of this pain for you.
For I know, all too well,
On just how much a heart can break.
 
I watch you.
Within the still hours of this lonely night.
At a clock that tauntingly flashes back at you,
3:30 a.m. 
 
(Oh, how dark those nights can be.)