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Sabila Siddiqui May 2018
Mother,
The epitome of love.

A star made of combustion
Of crimson and wild blue.
Her smile like a cresent
shining bright
from an afar Galaxy.

Mother,
Vibrant as sun rays,
And soft like the moonlight.
Tremendous as lightning,
enlightning the dark sky
with a spark.

Mother,
The paintbrush
that paints vibrancy
on the dullest of days.

Mother,
A soul that burns with ferocity,
Whos hands are always busy
scrubbing, moulding, cooking
But her touch always caressing with love.

Mother,
Who's voice can be the ocean
Calming and soothing
Or as loud as the seas
Roaring and crashing in a storm
bursting away personal confinement.

But she rows
Even through the sea of troubles.
Nothing is too heavy
She marches on.

Mother,
Who sacrifices and compromises
To deepen skies
and hand stars to hold.

Mother,
Who's love I cannot comprehend and stomach
For she grows flowers from pain,
Inhaling O2
And Exhaling O3
Transfiguring weeds into garden for us to play.

She is the incarnation of love.
Jenna May 2014
Telephones.
Earphones.
Earplugs.

To drown out
Baby cries.
Engines exhaling.
Anxiety.

"Don't be afraid"
"You've done this before"
"He knows what he's doing"


The tired.
The disagreeable.
The impossibly experienced.

Tickets.
Bags.
Smile-free faces.


I'm ready.
You're ready.
Let's go already.

— The End —