Mother of Him

From paintings hanging on the kitchen’s walls,

No water remains clear in a bowl of love.

Simmered herbs cover the horrible stench

Hidden inside a mouthful of pained

Swallows discarding the truth into the abyss.

It’s wrong to be a guardian that silently scans the night

For waiting another day to be thrown in the dirt.

Drapes glisten inside the soaked puddle

Drawn from inside a person’s heart.

They who carry each lie biting on their firm shoulders

Where the intellect and wisdom link to become one

Know such burden prisons them

Into the adverts of men.  

These rising warriors no longer trap themselves

In between the colored seas

Whose touch pricks out their scars

Mapping the place everyone ignores.