The Break-In
They came at night,
no warning, no sound,
just splintered wood
and footprints on the ground.
They took the telly,
they took the spare change,
a drawer of junk,
nothing strange.
But then
they found the box I’d hid
beneath her scarves,
beneath the lid
the only thing
she left to me
before she slipped
so silently.
My mother’s ring.
Her wedding gold.
Still warm with stories
never told.
She gave it me
with trembling hand,
no voice to speak,
no last command.
Now it’s gone,
those greedy thieves,
who’ll never know
how a daughter grieves.
May what they touch
turn bitter fast,
may nothing stolen
ever last.
Let their hands
feel cold at night,
let sleep desert them
out of spite.
Rest in peace Mum
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
How sad that had to happen. The poem is full of sadness for the loss of a heirloom and also losing the sense of safety and security of a home. Good work.