A Daughter’s Poem of Love: Soaring After Domestic Abuse

Domestic violence is insidious, evil, and destructive to everyone in its path. Even if a child is not being directly mistreated, if he or she lives in an abusive household where their mother is the target, the psychological and emotional effects are still enormous. Although an abuser may carefully control his actions so the children supposedly don’t see or know, they do. They can sense things, feel things, observe things—especially changes in their beloved mother. And this hurts them. A lot.

That is one of my deepest sorrows. Yet at the same time, my (now adult) children have been of utmost comfort, and have tremendously supported me during the healing process. They are always there for me, always showing their love and faith in me.

My daughter has gifted me with a gorgeous poem of healing and grace, and I want to share it with everyone. I hope all survivors of domestic abuse can see how this poem applies to them, as well.

by Keariel Peasley

Your wings were blue,
      Like the heavens, like the sea, like melancholy,
                        They knew instinctively that flight was their fate, were created solely to soar,
That they guided you to flowers, that the nectar was sweet,
That your realm was limitless; you could reach any height.
Your wings were blue, a most royal blue,
      Painted by God and passed down through Grammy,
For no lineage is superior
To that of Love.
Your wings were still blue,
      Even when they were clipped,
Rendering sweet flowers too high and the sky an impossibility.
Their blueness remained even when folded behind you,
Where you couldn’t see them, forgot they were there,
Their presence seemed a dim memory,
When you crawled on the ground, thought you’d get nowhere,
But I saw your wings, brilliant blue tucked away,
And I knew that with enough faith and strength,
   You’d recall their presence, unfurl them,
    To match the vibrance of the celestial sphere,
To feel the wind carry you, to taste the sweetest flowers again,
For wings serve only one purpose:

to fly.

​So, my dear, your wings are still blue,
      And I see them still now,
As blue as God painted and Grammy gifted,
As blue as my eyes that know their splendor,
And know that a butterfly lives to soar; let the wind be your guide and the flowers revive you,
As you open your wings in the sun and they shimmer
In their brilliant hue.
For no matter how long they’ve been hidden,
Your wings will always be there.


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