Mothers Ballad.

Your weight is an anchor on my chest as we
struggle together
like two unborn infants
in the womb
our breath mingling
and our soul
with the sad reality of eternal gloom
our damaged souls unbinding.

Your olive skin grows
crimson like the petal of a red flower.
Layers of you unravel before me,
each layer as beautiful as the last,
then your colour dulls to a grey
from your head to the tips of your hardened toes.
Our infant cries screaming together
with heartache for the past.

You crumble into dust between my calloused fingers.
Everything you are now
what you were
the only remains of you a heap of meaningless cloth.
Cotton, polyester, wool, denim,
fragments of your soul weaved amongst the material.
The only reminder that you were more than those petals.

Your weight was once an anchor on my chest.
Now it's a pool where my heart should be,
and we collapse into each other once more.

Unborn infants, crawling in the sea of our womb,
our soul
and intertwining.
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