metaphor, schmetaphor

barren oakwood branches sway and sing

catching windborne whistles,

softening the cues

with whispered owl coos, a mother lulls her child

not acknowledging the moments before

when those oak branches,

were erratic and hostile in nature

that wind slammed shutters maddeningly

banging and creaking, over and over

and those owl screechings,

were like screams in the night.

when she saw her oh sweet baby, blue dead under the moonlight

through her lullaby and after,

the world didn't say a thing

only a singular tune, 

the wind chime's weeping

ringing in sync, with the mothers own

and the child lays silent

Author's Note

This is actually crazy hard to finish, I need to take a nap on it.