Grown?

Mother, cries,
Silence in a shameful voice.
Tears of dust, entombed;
Mother, turns, an urn,
Empty and grey inside, sits
As the sun drags long the floor.

And whispers spinning,
Waving out of thought.
Mother, where is this place?
What have we become?

The alabaster erodes,
As church bells tole: an angel,
born in time, drags along the floor.
Ghosts of friends cricle,
Drinking sickness, drinking whiskey.

Dusty voices shimmering in air-
An urn atop a mantle, rasping:
'Here lies the fairytale,
and in this fairytale all do lie.'

Cry, mother. Search for tears