This is not a poem

She was born, a sweet little (cross eyed) baby
A son was expected, so she was tolerated
Not a good way to start, but that’s what it was.

She grew into beauty and song
And her heart sung with her in accompanying murmur
Despite her being treated so wrong
Her mother was cold (and she rebellious and strong)
She tried lots of sex, some religion
She was searching for love (or a bit of affection)
But the climate was dry, and she had to rely,
On her heart for some moisture (and a little protection).

She married too early, to a guy much too old
He could not make money, Even if you gave him your gold
He did work… but the fool sunk in debt
And dragged her to a money less desert…

She gave birth to, two lovely (cross eyed) daughters
She made do with nothing, Yes, that’s what she had
And she wept and she cried and surprisingly… laughed…
She had a life! and her heart kept roaring with her

Her mother died early, her father remarried, and promptly forgot her…
Two brothers… were supposed to assist…
One helped many times, until his mind froze his heart
The other (a deadbeat) gave when he could, but mostly he couldn’t…

Is it too much to say, she was rejected by all?
Even her grandma called her ugly and fat!

And her life got much worse; you want to know how hard?
When she could not pay the bills, she was forced to,,,
Steal water from her neighbor’s yard.

And with no friends…

Her heart kept on pumping, to ease the burn of existence
Never stopping to think, that too much is too much
She was flooded with water expanded and bloated
Water everywhere… and not a drop of dryness to be found.

With the doctors indifference,,, some bad medication,
And all other conditions, I would have expected despair…
But not her! Her spirit was strong!

With convictions and humor, she was floating at home
She, was the master, and happy to muster
Her strength, and direct… HER family’s course
But her body could take it no more.

Heart and soul fused,,, And she stopped.

Six men, were needed, to wheel forward, her cart
Yes, she was that bloated and large
Her grave was awaiting to give her…
A bed and a blanket, a friendly embrace
It was time for her wetness to ripen dry earth
To finely be given, some balance and love.

All this…has happened a decade ego…
And this; is not a poem,,,
It’s a late obituary.

– Yehoshua Aryeh

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