In orbit, she is motherly, touched by a bit of supremacy.
No matter how many times I am seated…
in her presence I am still.
And, I am bowed down…at her feet.
She wears a tone that covets my needs.
Adorning a preface to a story.
…
In the open air, a deceiver.
Maternal winds distort, stutter…
still the memory follows me.
Soon, so soon, I will be made worthy to take a seat at the table.
…
Traversing untamed brooks.
‘Who am I to discover a Mother’s Mother that could be.
In the vast loneliness of self preservation…had I once performed very bad things?
Where was I when first mother took my mind?
Where had I gone when the nurturer offered time?
Wounds of fire and rubbish replaced by winds for sailing, light to guide me home.
A luminous aura left behind…leaving a manner in which to dine.
