The Mother.

I woke up amongst the toil and frigid lock. Taciturn, still I'm holding thought. Like balls of yarn spinning round And round and round Collecting daylight in ragged threads. All For this, a marring hustle Lead by the hum of our beating hearts In the barrels of a ghost. How great, the bellows churn When old light plays an overture In the waves of someone elses dust. This room conceals what has been lost And those made in it Are the only perfect reflection of me. But yet, I dont know how I could call a single space, my own. So, I wait to gather what is left behind. These little things I find Remind me that I am named Though without certainty Chained to the nothing knot And gone before yesterday. ©