A Womb To Hide Or A Mom To Guide
Or a girl, to become the womb for more!
This is dedicated to the womb of my younger self home, or to the motherhood of my hearty dome.
A womb with an exposed torturous lyre,
Vacating the days of its malaise fire,
To lighten up her sullen vacuous desire,
And raise her beauty from a blooming dire.
A womb chosen by the gods of fire,
With the Sun to arrive an earthly tire,
Awaiting to kiss her healing wire,
And grow that scant heel to a floating shire.
A womb with a facile faithful fern,
The one, not blanching to a bleeding turn,
That which twists the unfurling ventral wine,
And view the blend of the blindfolded shine.
A boy or a girl in a womb to fly,
For the earth to quake in the quacking high,
For a buck, to raze the womb he wore,
Or a girl, becoming the womb for more.
A star to gloss in a world for nine,
Or a waiver, not shunned by a tearing line,
To pamper the burdens of that withering land,
And puff up the airs in a sunken sand.
A womb to nourish the feathers of pride,
Or a mom to view her cocoon bride,
That which moistens her tough emotional eyes,
Also willing to sacrifice in the death of ties.
A womb with a thickening ostrich smile,
That which lays out in the darken aisle,
That which cuts off from the strings apart,
To break the wounds of her soulful start.
A womb of wax to be thawed in the arms,
With the Sun, torching any touch of palms,
To pursue the warm nerves’ valiant twirl,
And praise the womb of that sterling girl.
