Mother

If I were blind, an orphan or worse,
a babe at your breast ready to nurse.
I would have to reach for more than a book,
for something that needs a 2nd, 3rd & 4th look.
I’d then try to feel each line, building a world in my mind,
of worlds out of reach at the tip of my fingers,
with imaginary lands, between them lingers.
I’d feel the character’s hearts and souls.
Painting for me pictures whole.

Centuries past with futures to come,
the smell of sweat, a women’s humm.
Aaaah, the taste of her sweat and the thrust of pleasure.
The sight of blood, that of another.
Then the taste of that blood and the thrust of its pain,
from cold steel through her veins

Lives pass but souls remain, with the smell of roses,
the thrust of thorns, than blood again.

Now, if I knew my name or mother at least,
I wouldn’t be blind, orphaned or a beast.

Who ever, What ever, Where ever you may be,
Mother, I am sorry.

©WRM