Her son is going to war...
Her son is going to war, the son she 'd held so close her little boy, her life, her love, the one that plays with butterflies never catches them, but tries and tries, the one that writes poems to the moon... and thinks that autumn ends too soon, flesh of her flesh so much a part of her... She smiles to hide her fears wiping her eyes to errase tears born deep inside her soul, for she knows... she knows it all and she wonders if she should tell, open his eyes to the awaiting hell, to the cries of... Sign in to see full entry.