Your spirit resides in turbulence,
But, a moth rests itself atop your temple,
A grave sits before you, idle and waiting.
There’s a place in Heaven, for you,
Near the place Christ left, for you.
There’s evil that runs so free,
Seemingly freer than love, itself.
Why do you find yourself in comfort,
During when your son has shown sides to him,
That only you could ever know?
Though, you show faces twisted and scorning,
During when your son has shown a world for himself.
I matter for your approval,
Father has died,
A world has been separated
Alike sprinkles of color
Atop a cake of black and white,
And I require the remembrance,
Death seems to soak itself,
As I am a pessimist,
That, is where death drowns itself,
In my mind you seem to dub to be wretched.
A life, in love with a woman,
And you disapprove.
You desire comfort, nestle yourself near comfort?
Is it all you crave?
What way is there to send you
To places that are not of comfort,
But are going to spill tragedy’s mark upon
Your delicate forehead?
Mother, your son
Has found enough, from you,
And for you.
And, he has found for himself,
A place in a woman’s heart,
Though, you’ll continue
To show a starving face,
In the wrong direction.