melissaahowells
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pay no attention to the rise and the fall of the sea water, your tears and your fears... they are the snakes hissing a false sermon. at times were you treated like vermin? not performing the right function. misery is now the injunction. that pouch-billed b*tch, is feeding you her regurgitated pitch. and you are swallowing. your chest now a hallowing, an empty niche where your heart used to sleep. hush now, come now, not a peep. this news is a test, a harbinger, at best. he was the son to his Mother, and she not the Mother to you. its an odd time for thinking of favorites. boo-who? she's beyond speech and reproach, here, she's left you her broach and gifts of all her best lovely jewels. yet, you find life is curious and cruel? fine words would have been much better gruel. wasn't it love you were seeking? fine food for a fool. now you slide beneath the water and waves. there is a certaintly we will all grow towards our graves. some even too soon. and what of this misappropriated portion of grief? from which you are finding no unrelenting relief? quelle bon chance, it is tied to the holiday and makes of your birthday a bl**dy fine blossoming funereal wreath. **the first poem written in anger after my Mother's untimely death Copyright written January 2007 most recently rediscovered November 3,2013 Melissa A Howells /Meloo Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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