Mother of My Child

An indirect confusion,
Caused by a derelict Sun,
As time stands still,
And as the feathers
Of our ancestors; ruffle.

You are the mother of my child.

While in the dim glow
Of a half lit Moon,
I bear upon my back
The scars of endless mistreatments,

My own whip has cracked.

A carbon monotony,
Sulfur, fire, ash.

Methuselah’s innate melodrama,
And the wife; a mostly perpendicular
Suture, on confiscated flesh.

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