No. Mother, #116

This world be
a tangle of wires
bundled up
and twisted like babies
unborn, wrapped
in umbilical cords
turning blue
and choked off from the womb
of mother
planet whose milk we milk
and curdle
into ashes and soot,
whose regard
and offers we discard
in the trash
like junk mail flyers
and handouts
for sales and discounts.

This world be
a nursery of delights
all promised
to us in accordance
with the laws
set down at the outset
of time, signed
into the settlement
as a word
whispering in our blood
that says Tie:
Only plan to remove
just as much
as you will put back in.
When you’re tied
don’t play it for the win.
You can’t win
(but yes, you can lose it).”

This world be
a garden, yes, and you,
unique one,
a beast like all others
you abhor,
none more lovely nor more
nor more likely to live
for eons
or bring the destruction.
No. Mother
Earth, who loves you always
has no qualms
in killing her babies
if they try
to strangle their own breath
and dissect
their precious oxygen.

This world be
the world we are given,
not to own,
nor to rule, nor conquer
but a womb
to suckle on and nurse,
leave the walls
malleable and supple
like the day
we first landed, the seed
of a thought
germinating to pass
down a word,
split into syllables,
of the peaceful children.

This world be
a bevy of highways
we merge on
and zoom across, refuse
in wisdom
to accept the exit
or get off
and so force our mother
to punish
us like naughty children
and stick us
in the corner where bad
siblings sit,
or if needed to be,
bumped off.

So push it
be inventive and bold
tweak the pot
like the beaver, burrow
in and build
your masterpiece, but know
when mother
comes home she will topple
and bust it,
not out of some insane
power trip
but to reset the slate
for future
usage, a new clean wall
to draw on
and sketch inspiration.

This world be
a twist of desires
turned over
in our conniving minds
to temper
the missing middle, void
at the heart
of our universe, chess
green felt poker table
a poem,
a place where choices made
is a choice
dealt back in kind and spades.
black center.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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