The Mothers

Their rotten corpse is all that they remain,
A life to owe that must never fulfill.
These empty shells that’s defiant by pain,
Rob of their minds and decent, common will.
Such as their envy, consume by their rage,
The ever longing for warmth and life
By a child, loss and their dying of age.
Such a threat impose a greater strife.

Seal the breaches to eliminate the night,
Never wander on the dark eve of moon.
And pray for the incoming of the light,
Before the scratches and melody tune.
For no peace is given by woman scorn,
When the mothers denounce all that is born.


Art: The Mothers by TheMichaelMacRae


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