There will be no little hand
Curled around my thumb,
No soft mouth suckling
In hungry thirst.
I will never kiss your cheek
Or miss you when you’re out to play.
There will not be a card coloured
Wishing Happy Mother’s Day.
There will be no soft little smell
Wrapped in my arms and soul,
No bright pure eyes gazing
At the world to meet.
No plasters for your falls
Or stories boundlessly shared.

There will be no mother in me for you,
But not because I never cared.

The fall.
Tinges of orange sunset
hanging on branch ends-
Life smiled there,
in sunshine beams
through summer’s lovers eyes.
Shades fading.
The dark luminous
in icy, vacant skies
filled with souvenirs
life time’s gone,
slipping ******* between.

Days vanish.
Hours grow short.
Heart’s hopscotch through
tears long since dried.
Green turning gold
riches brimming with laughter.

You articulate in swift flight, confidence soaring,
plenitude of words, justly convincing.
Floating on breathless wind between here and there.
Fumbling with sense, coherence of purpose
between twisted bed sheets, whispering pillows;
In the freeze frame static of moonless nights.

I feel the yearning burn towards hoping truth
in a splintering fire against which I warm;
crackling up all your feathers, and concord.
In the daylight you scatter ordinance together,
recklessly aspiring to repair undoing damage:
Wings stunted irrevocably through flailing flighted dreams.

Unknown weighted obstacles glide courageously in hurtled silence,
sideways across the cool air of this post-nested room;
Waiting for gold and diamonds to appear, glorified.
The slightest movement uttered punctures you,
a soggy blown balloon squirting off these walls-
dexterity lays useless on this love-laden floor.

I stare at you spewed inanimately,
like splattered spaghetti in a fitting rage,
across the boards of our echoing abode.
Depths of sightlessness reveal tentatively:
There exists no place for a soul
on the unstable face of the dead.

Just a disappointment

I don't hate,
It’s just wasteful-
Breathing in
and never breathing out.

The space is empty
with crammed tug-of-wars
dragging my heart,
Heart dragging months.

I don't think
any less or worse-
Character undefined. Always repetitive.
Bored of the ****
pulling over old paintings;
Same as yesterday,same as before.

I don't cry
for actions cowardly
shunted inwards;
Explosion due released.
The shedding tears,
carving maps upon lips,
design attention
inward reaps deliverance.

I don't hurt
for lacking sensitivity-
desire for one embellished
with lapping present conviction.
The same minuscule point,
returned again and again-
Intentions to change;
Stairwell to nowhere.