The Woman who reached Heaven

If there is such a construct as heaven, in the afterlife

She would surely have her own personal space in it.

I have no doubt that she deserves it,

But also, she would never be able to enjoy it.




She is what one would call a ‘sorrowful daughter’

Always finding reasons to be unhappy,

Even when there are plenty of things not to be.

She lives to gain validation through misery.




She is ‘making mountains out of molehills’, personified,

Something as distant and unrelated as, a draught

in South Africa could make her feel wronged

For she feels as though the world owes her something.




She has lived so long in conflict & suffering that,

Take it away, give her a content life,

And she would not know what to do,

With this new found sense of happiness




So, she will revert to the familiar, miserable memories

And wallow in self pities, and ‘woe is me’

Just so that the world can sympathize with her

To blame her not, for the way her life has turned out




Happiness is something not pursued, but must ensue,

A lesson which she has to learn in its fullest,

For even if she is made the queen of all existence,

She will lament the woes of such prominence.




Her husband, an antisocial and unempathetic to emotions,

He brought her great heartache and consternations,

Her son , selfish and a sociopath, who saw her as but a servant,

He gave her no peace, and denied her even a peaceful night’s sleep




Banished was the husband, to another home, to another land

Exiled was the son, to live alone, to be someone else’s burden

On nightfall she thought, finally Soma to my mind, sleep for my eyes,

Alas, now her mind was filled, with slights of past ages,




Crimes which had no bearing on the present,

But her mind, fearful of peace, scrounged them up,

To once again keep her in a sense of panic,

Sleep yet again was a stranger to her.




She was in many ways, like that cripple climbing the mountain

Carrying on his back, a score large boulders

He need only let go of his weights, and be unburdened, lightened,

Yet he refuses, saying, these are mine, leave them not, for I know better.




Thus she carries till the end of her days

Slights, crimes, sorrows & failings, small and large

She keeps the fire of hate burning in her heart

Even when the ones who lit them, have long moved past




So goes the story of the poor women

Who, found the stairway to heaven.

But she held onto her boulders, her suffering, her misery

Neither angels nor heaven's host, could give her true peace.