Our Mother

Our mother is angry.
She rattles in her sleep.
There's a burning spirit among her.
Her children, taking the heat.

He burns as we kill
when we destroy, then decieve.
He burns as we sin
on our mother's tattered sheets.

He blames her for our indifference.
She'll only force herself to weep.
Washing away our guilt,
He nips at her feet.

Our mother is angry.
She rattles in her sleep.
Her skin, sore with negligence.
And the occasional third degree

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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