Mother
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“No person is ever responsible, in terms of choice. As this would be the same to ask a mother which of her children she would choose to die, since if not, she’d be responsible for them all. All responsibility is, rather, within the realm of not having a choice.” – Modern Romanticism
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Never so muchKept in the dark,Holding upon soil, with an animalStuffed with paper,Paper disused,Misused,Meant for currency,Used for comfort. A bleeding,Rife,Opened soulTo the sounds of a distant fallingOf a woman’s voice.She sends him whispers,The child with the teddy bear,The child with a lonely stare. A spirit,A phantomClung to dirt,And from dirt, to debris. A little tearComes
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Who do you grieve for, When the night has no stars? When the ice of the silent universe Encompasses the space in your mouth, For whom do you scream? He died To your satisfaction. He bled For your wounds. He left, With the wetness of your appetite, Still remaining to dine. I once was trapped
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Close your fatal wings around me, Once more. Close your bladed arms around me, Once more, For I know you will do so To demand forgiveness. My face is kissed With lips soaked in venom. My childlike face is the maturity of a turnip, Still a seed. Her eyes see the next pain to deal
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Oh, devil inside, Demon inside, Makeshift goodbyes Have only sought to soothe What came crashing to me as comfort, To blow it away. What was an origin, Was a womb, For I was born a monster, in a monster’s belly. Her eyes stare the world to sadness, Her form is toxic in its structure. Grown
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How I love thee, mother of so many embraces,And I’ll cherish thee, with all the spilled many graces.And your hair, that which I see, to reveal how much you care,It is strewn about,Showing your negligence upon yourself,But, where are you to care for you? How I will kiss thee, mother of my Heaven,And I’ll wrap
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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
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We are unable to wish,For the pain to end itself,Due to how our desires bendWith one another on this frail soil.We are united in death,And divided in love. A pitiful little beauty you once wereTo me and the seas.Waters poured from your eyes,Like frail rivers of ice.And I kissed each tear that strayedFrom its trail.
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They, who crawled, naked, in grief, Were beside the forests, in failing sleep. Sinister shadows, were their playmates, Begging unto God, for piety’s absence. I slew, their lives, in amass, Emptied their reflections, in glass. For she, who called me abroad, To taste the banquet, of my dreams. She was, to the sinister playthings, A
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Q: For those you believe to be in question of the unknowns to life, who are such people? A: They are such people, as both Christians and Scientists, who raise their heads in curiosity to see such unknowns. An unknown, being what is placed upon with a question. That question will receive an answer. What
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What had dominated white? It was black, that dominated white. It was the universe, that shrouded the moon. It was the universe, that shrouded the sun. Bombarded my guilt, to deadness. And I grieved, no more.
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Oh, the evergreen, Was beside the deep, How She rose from blue, To dance with the sun. Oh, crescent moon, Whose shape remains, How Mary blessed Mars, To roam with the vast. Oh, roaring fire, From the widest shore, How simply it sparks, To laugh with the lone. Oh, caring mother, With paleness of flesh,
Modern Romanticism 