dry shoulder

cry on me.
it’s not ok.
enough with the lies.
its all spinning faster
and sucking you
down wind from
the daylight.
you pray
but he's still
sick.
you beg
but they've all
succumbed to the
nagging noise of
defeat.
its become
deafening,
deadly-
as time is
running low
and your body
wains, weary
from the pain
of provision
for a family who
can't stand
without your
maternal arms
to hold them up.
it's not ok.
so cry on my
dry shoulder.
i'll be your arms
for the moment.