Touch of Madness

In the winding wood's of Caroline
there on pathway's up and down.
Nestled neath the pines and green fronds
he said our bodies, would be found.

One hand held to a pint of moonshine
the other bore a twenty-two.
Hours of marching on 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
seemed no reason, nor any rhyme.

Mother hid me behind her body
trying to stay between he and I.
Spoke, "Kill me if you must kill someone
she's just thirteen, too young to die."

I walked pretending I was elsewhere
whispering a prayer silently.
Knowing if he did kill Mother
he'd turn the gun, and then kill me.

Then just as quickly as it started
he'd proven his point; he was done.
Said," Let's get home and fix some supper"
went to the truck, and hid the gun.

You wonder why I'm sometimes weary
or seem to write from some dark place.
Snips of madness haunt my memories
the touch of madness; leaves it's trace.

     c.d.m. 5-25-11

[today 47 years after the fact]