Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash
The mother wound beckons to be opened,
Cut gently with the skillful artist’s hands
To ooze degradation from the box
In which she’s kept it hidden
Since the moment of her inception
To set her free, and with it
Drain the pus of aggravation,
Infection, carried in her swollen belly
Like a sickly baby long past its birth
Let it spill forth,
Pouring out the lifetimes of quiet rage
Festering in its place of confinement,
Crying for a new life,
Begging to take wing,
Asking, was it ever mine to begin with?
©SpiritLed 2018