A Most Lovely Hell

It looks like a post card,
two cats in the yard,
the perfect lawn,
something our of Currier and Ives,

a storybook so ideal
you know there is a story there,
of lovers by the fire,
of children treasured and nurtured.

But inside the only fires are the fires of hell,
anger and abuse, dark doings
and floors wet with tears.
The bruises do not show beyond these walls,

as long as everyone conspires
to paint the picture, and hide the casualties
in the postcard that is their hope
and their prison both, until

someone speaks,
someone walks out the front door,
frightened like a child, but bearing their recent scars,
ruining the picture,

but saving their lives.

About this poem

I know too many people abused in their own lives, lives that look postcard perfect. This is dedicated to the ones who break free. I admire you all more than you know.

Tom