Being your mother isn't easy--
You never would believe me.
The branches of the trees that hold
That cradle, and my baby.

And I'm a man who has to know it
But won't speak up to try and show it
Because I have reservations
The truth is strange sometimes, we know that.

And so layers deep, careening
We start to understand the meaning
But we all have different pieces
And reject the things that hurt.

But in inherent association
We call our God a Satan
And the system can't exist
Without the flames of hell escaping.

But maybe the meaning is ultimately nothing.