Fire is inside you,
Inside me,
Little one,
Born at the bon fires at night,
Born of greed; greedy lust.
They all took me here,
Took your mother away,
Flung her sweet face to dirt,
Where she tasted the moss,
And felt the fire;
Pain; pleasure rain.
I used to fear, you'd born dire,
Like,
The cleft lip that marks a sad life,
Like,
Being born with no legs!
How I feel now, legless,
For I am unable to move,
Except for a little cringe,
As fiery rods were forced inside me.
But I must confess,
That I started to like the way that felt,
But that was before,
Before the last of the cuts opened within me,
And a gore and blood mixture drained.
But my sweet child,
You were also born to the sweet scents of night-woods,
Born of the moon and stars; dark and light.
And your cries made me regret,
No! No! Never did I regret you; my life,
I regretted my thoughts,
Those of penetrating myself with cold, steel rod,
A real one, mind you,
And I attempted to pierce your developing heart,
To **** you and end my fears,
I feared in my mind you would be born with the features of sin,
But lo! It is not so, my sweet, sweet baby.
I was not impregnated by those men,
I was not impregnated by the weak trickle of life,
That spews from their desire-rods.
My dear boy,
I was impregnated by the lovely night!
Sweet, sweet night......
A fantasized version of a dire secret my mother shared with me.
