The Mud

The mud inches its way towards,

My wife and daughter,

I hold them ever so tight.

My tears inches there way down my cheek,

My wife tears creep down my forearm,

And my daughter asks,

Why father.

It’s the rainy season,

It’s the pain season,

It’s the season of heartache.

The cardboard box,

Disintegrates into more pieces,

Why my daughter asks.

My tears mix with the mud,

My wife sinks further into the mud,

“Why my daughter asks.

I hold what’s left of my family,

Close to my heart and I ask,

Why.

Michael “Fireeyes” Robinson