With grace she doused
Her hair in fuel
And lit the flames
As a burning carousel

What will be
Never belongs to us
So, we treat what we have
So, carefully

Potato chips, candied strawberries
All the tastes I remember
None I can afford, the memory stays

My mother needs no metaphors
She has abstruse meaning of her own
A music in her rhythmic voice
But, over the years she has jaded

Become fragile, and her temper often mercurial
Her heart curls up as cats do, purring softly
My love she may not endear, and the fights have gotten worse
Especially now, but sometimes I get faded too

Her heart now has a music of her own
I've forgotten the tune
She once sang to me
Now that voice is raspy and frail