fermentation permeates
thumbs its holes
perforates the surface
in her turning state
+++
her aged clammy skin
is sacky suit
and patched with the marring
of toxin exhaust
her worn molt gowning
clothes it all in
her belfry ?
there is no sage here
place held ;
there is a broken variation
of some childish penitentiary
though her matter is paddy and pollute
her being is parched
she is expulsion in progress
setting :
positioned
opposing the other physically
in form of a cold interview
we are in a breakfast café
i will not reach for her hand
though she'd like the comfort
with no asylum given
what are her words to be ?
i wait
(i cannot manage a kindness
her mangy carriage promotes nausea)
i wait
(i'll not reach for her
her actions in our family wicked life
she provokes no trust or warmth)
i wait
(i'll not be the first to speak)
if there is anything left to say
talk now ?
i feel a little quickening
what are your words, old heck ?
her hands fit about like moth
she ignites a cigarette
the life fights out of her
right then
no spores
only resin
she passes in front of me
she said not a word
i awkwardly pay the bill with quaking hands
and leave her there
i am homeless, without a mother
-scattered-
she is ultimately homeless now