Don’t worry, mother, he is no more.
A string of pearls and a torn nibble of lace,
Blood emerged to frame her face,
The creature had cursed us before.
Antiseptic and cold cloth to soothe,
Merciless words and a wretched gaze,
Frozen mindset and fifteen years rephrase,
Now I Love Lucy reruns and the cotton candy booth.
Your heart, for years, locked in a gilded cage.
House of filth. Oh! The piano out of tune,
He always threatened to do it real soon,
Don’t worry, mother, you’ve the power of age.
She’s not worn pearls for three years,
Grace returns to her fingertips and feet,
Fire to her eye and passion for raw meat.
Freedom shatters her wooden ears.
Five o’clock on Thursdays for his sin,
To bark, to fight, to harden her fist,
To harvest titanium in her wrist,
She is of the feminine.
The serpent’s intelligence falsified,
Truth flung prisoner into the fun house.
Customers must don masks and consider Faust,
Pay the whitewashed claws and frothy lips that lied.
Steal away in a Blake-esque night,
Together touch humanity’s heart,
Hanging tears chiseled from Rodin’s unwanted art,
A gathering of voices in mind and in sight.
Mother, your fire needs no kindling power.
Your companion is knowledge and wit,
Your past is corrupted and lit,
Start anew, flesh and mind, bud of the flower.
