The Mother

She sleeps on a bed of rocks drenched in sea salt;
my Mother’s strength has come to a halt.
She lies on rocks with sharp edges and ugly fates to spare.
On these she gave birth to me; another tentacle of dare.

I breathe, I be.
In a while I doze off with the ice of her lifeless caress.

My Mother awakes on white sheets, still.
Will I be on them the first wrinkle of ink? Will I be the shrill
in her voice when she discovers herself in foreign land?
I need a father to lay the path of lead for me to carve out, for her, Man.

He breathes, he is.
In a while he stands to recite my guess.

Mother devours the Muse who dressed me in lyric.
She exhausts my penance until I become a cynic.
And Man, he weeps away his flesh, for there will come another,
taller, stronger, sharper, bolder.

She breathes, she is.
When she has infinity to possess.

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