Such a little baby, crying.
Tossing from the stress of knowing.
Knowing the troubles she will soon come to love.
Strapped in, snugly, to a warm back seat.
Her mother wishes so desperately
that the headlights could brighten more than the road.
Hours they drive, to nowhere.
The baby, no longer crying, falls into sleep.
Neither long for home just yet.
Your care is useless to me.
Such as the dead stories taught of gods,
who no longer hold any faith.
Surrounded by lessons of a different language.
Each, passionate in it’s recitation.
But not so passionate to make me understand.
My hair is pulled so taunt now.
Every second, another strand, ripped from my head.
But you can’t stop me from screaming.
However, the tumble of a car ride
almost makes me remember,
and only remembering can make me forget.
I find myself wishing
that this ride would never end.
