In the winding wood’s of Carolina;
There on pathway’s up and down.
Nestled neath the pines and green fronds.
He said our bodies would be found.
One hand held a pint of moonshine.
The other bore a twenty-two.
Hours of marching as he taunted.
His threats had always proven true.
He needed no excuse for madness.
His madness came and went with time.
A word, a look, or passing fancy.
There seemed no reason nor any rhyme.
Mother hid me behind her body.
Staying between he and I.
Saying,”Kill me if you must kill someone,
she’s just thirteen and too young to die.”
I walked pretending I was elsewhere.
Crying prayer’s out silently.
Knowing if he killed my Mother.
He’d turn the gun and then kill me.
Then just as quickly as it started;
He’d proved his point and he was done.
Said,” Let’s get home and fix some supper.”
Went to the truck and slid away the gun.
You wonder why I’m most times weary.
Or seem to write from some dark place.
This is just a page out of my history.
Once touched by madness; it leaves a trace.
[46 years after the fact]