She is sleep

If i had a quarter for each time i heard the bullshit i heard come out of my mother's mouth i would be three quarters of the way of enlightening her pensive persona.

Uttering miscarriages that leak the same rhetoric that harbors dislike.

It's the ponaird that pierces the gut with indelible aversion.

Slaying her false ideals with explanation and logic that seem to usher no understanding.

My words are whistled and she is not in tuned to what serenades her.

It is only prayer that could rescue her from her clique crafted mention.


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