Letter from Philomela

I wish I could write this letter
To you Mother,
To be soothed by you as in childhood,
Your warm arms around me
Your soft lips kissing my forehead
When my dreams were ripped apart
Burst open, and
Shrapnel lay strewn like
dead withered leaves
Lifeless on the damp soil
Oozy with blood
Flowing from the slain nightingale's body.

I wish I could write this letter
To you all
So you could turn away for a moment
From your HD TV screen
Speaking of death, arson and rape,
Drop no ice cube into your crystal glass
And see how those pairs of eyes
One, two and then so many
Blurred my vision
Enjoyed and drooled
As Philomel shrieked herself to death.

Letters are written no more.
No more does mother wait.
I walk the streets alone,
Wearing my shame on my countenance.