Broken Strings

Momma comes home all teary one evening.
She doesn't speak a word but I can tell
from the way her face hardens when she looks at me;
from the way she wearily holds herself.
From that moment on I knew
she cannot hold on much longer.

When I have a bundle of flowers in my hands,
it feels as if there's nothing there at all
but a bunch of strings I couldn't let go - I wouldn't.
As I hold on to every dead life, something tugged at me,
and I look up with a different point of view from yesterday,
vowing to nothing in particular, something in me finally snaps.