Saturday, April 19, 2014


May be subject to copyright

She came to me,
cocooned and unwarned,
thinking she was safe in a world
she held tight about her,
as the old crone holds her shawl
against a bullying wind.

Our worlds collide
and she is shocked by my strong
and cutting words.
Walls crumble in confusion
and tears well up.

I glimpse a child
still hiding.

She told me I was hurtful, and I agreed,
my tool of last resort was hurt
against the bitter way she strewed
white rose petals of disdain,
each and every one
with the blood-red mark of pain.

And then she asked my name, 
to know who it was that dare intrude on her
and when I spoke again,
she released her child name into my care
—like a butterfly—
and almost . . .

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014


  1. Wow! loved it

  2. Wow! From me too. Thank you for sharing this beautiful write

  3. Patrick Joseph DorrianApril 19, 2014 at 10:52 AM


  4. Barbara Boyd-AndersonApril 23, 2014 at 8:51 AM

    Resonates with the pain you describe here...beautifully written...


Comments are welcome . . .