Beyond  the hill
on the edge of town
overlooking a graveyard..
a rest home sits…
as if hidden by
those who care
not to see….
many years ago
i worked there…
the sadness
broke my heart..
silent tears
of broken spirits…
still burn my ears..
My eyes
looking in their eyes…
saw  many things.
Grown children
once trusted and loved
refused to visit..
could not visit…
yet gladly spent
money their parents
sacrificed to save
for old age….
to save their children
the hastle of
a rest home’s chores…
they say
if you sit 
nieth the hill
you can see
the tears
as Angels
catch them
in golden cups
for God…

picture & poem by connetta jean

~ by connetta on December 14, 2008.

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