August 14 by The Running Son
⊱✿ The mirror, mother ✿⊰
Looking deep into your eyes, mere surface
waters, like a painting, a Monet or Picasso,
some soul lacquered in the grayed facade and tones
of too old age, much holding on, and dirty ocean foam.
But an old age grown cold and brittle, broken
easily. Like those dolls you defaced then
tossed away, you folded long ago when you,
then bright blue, sold out by buying in to the bigbig show.
Daddy gave in, and said ‘enough is enough’
but didn’t mean it, did he?. And enough
was never enough, was it? Gathering
stuff; grey matter in full static, grasping for love.
Your lids droop. Leaden years have stitched
them with stiff threads, and deadened
the skin via smoke and rising sick breath,
swelling and shrinking–all heavens in your eyes receding.
Look at me mother! Before you now,
you see a fraction of the man that I am
if you see me in action tenderizing
my heart until I have my own full satisfaction.
I am a man now, playing father to the mother
that labored at the adoption board, grey floor tiles
forming a hop-scotch matrix, a clean geometry
promising family, waxed stiff and set, by taxonomy.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.