Her cremated hands held the cherub
of her ingrained expression on lipless
holdings. In basins of white did she
linger sight beyond hers, showing all
the creation of depraved meetings.
The child was silent, motionless in
Its satin sinews that covered all but
its unadorned features, yet weeping
was expelled as dark shades wept
Charcoal tears upon nothingness.
Her hair tightly held back, obsidian
in nature like a tomb stone of neatness.
A mothers love, of that which is an
aversion of ill conceived conception.
Purgatory welcomes its inception
