The Last Sketch

 

Matthew loved to convey his feelings through poetry, music and art.

“Listen to this song Mum” he cried one night “I want you to take heart.”

I listened intently to the touching lyrics; he needed back old times.

I held him lovingly in my arms, a broken soul;

My child had suffered for his crimes.

 

He handed me his sketch book, spoke volumes through art did we.

Said I was the only one who understood how he felt, the only one to see.

I open it with excitement, an Angel embracing a Cross he had drawn,

It was the next page that I saw her, a Grieving Mother, so forlorn.

 Rosemary beads with a Skull in the Cross rest in her praying hands,

One black tear, one white, adorn her cheeks,

 My full attention she commands.

 

She is me, I know it; I gaze at my son

 I see desperation has taken its toll,

“Oh God Please help him” I find myself praying,

 “Please save his beautiful soul.”

Page after page told the story that was so cruelly about to unfold,

Angels, Crosses, Mother Mary, Child’s hands, Roses, Moth’s

All left me feeling icy cold.

 

He suggests I skip a few drawings and turn to the last but one page.

“Son, what are you telling me?” I ask

“This figure is filled with such rage.”

Death himself, donning a Stetson

Holds two smoking guns to either side of his head,

Fear grips me;

 I have visions of myself wailing like a banshee,

As I hear the news “Matthew’s dead!”

 

 My heart pounds wildly whilst I take in the very last sketch,

A young boy’s hands let go of the Crown of Thorns and a Hanky;

 It made me so dizzy I did retch!

 

“You understand, don’t you Mum” Matthew whispered,

A single tear rolled down his handsome cheek.

Heartbroken I cradled him for the very last time;

                 He was in Heaven by the end of the week…