You come to me as interruptions when I'm about to utter some words with my disloyal tongue
Sometimes you hug my thoughts and lit bonfire and sit upon the log
Of my restlessness
In the forest Of my mind
Already on fire.
And you smile gently as you sit surrounded by the forest fire
You're old mother. I see stories within your wrinkles waiting to be heard.
You're half burnt mother, it isn't my mere guilt, but my love that tries to revive you again.
I'm sorry mother I made you dead. But it wasn't just me, was it?
You know something leads to something.
I'm sorry mother. How do you feel to be betrayed by your children?
I sit in the vintage victorian styled house
Writing about the home I burned
And the mother that died
And sometimes I put the remnants of her I have
In the fireplace
To try and set her aflame yet again
To feel her glow reflect upon my face and her warmth in my blood again.