Mother!

Another hour just passed me by, just another in a row and here another comes.

So still is the aftermath.

Oh dear, my mortal creator - my mother, hath I something to tell. May thou bestow me some pleasure of attention? I have craved it for years on end.

Oh, dear soul that value I more than mine! 'Tis a trepidation in my heart can I not comprehend. Say 'tis a pulse as vapid as all the remnants of the ruins hath that inlaid the land of my skull as imploded my heart within my chest. 'Twill be a relief.

Oh mother to whom owe I this body of mine, will I inflict any layer of thy corpus that thee wear if divulge I reason why? Owe I this body of mine to thy hands delicately rough now for owing I must and not out of love.

There, there did I confide in thee. Shall I repeat?

Uttered I part both bitter and sweet. Must thou speak? SPEAK! Shall I repeat?

Mother mother mother... lingers the noun like a lullaby close to my ears.

Ah! dulcet, mellifluous and sung sotto voce in thine voice so clear.

Yet, art these the words voiced keep that my eyes are so bereft of sleep.

Mother has it been two days and three nights now since closed my eyes for dreams saccharine. Yes - so long has it since slept I with feathers of fairies flying hither and thither in my mind. May thou save thy lullabies afore am I oblivious of a slumber forevermore.

'Tis in words of a wise mouth - thine art dressed in a veneer of captivity at its utmost.

May I am not that captive underground with the girl conceives who thy innocence?  

I dreamt of falling down a well,

A narrow tube, deep beneath the earth,

Dark and moist, I saw a small child, 

What’s it trying to tell?

Alas! says it syllables too audible for me to avert.

Art they not mere syllables ma; hath they torn tympanum of both my ears with just a cough.

The art they, not words that can I remember hearing thou speak; the art they the words left that these lips of thy visage whilst rested your body in my granny's lap.

Art the words some words of an ominous herald. She utters them, so strident and acerbic mother. Art her syllables an infant's squeak.

Does a cascade of tears emanate from her tiny eyes as she stares at me blankly?

I find my mother. I descry thy countenance in the pupil's sparkle.

Her tears transcend to gory a river on her skin not yet touched.

Bleeds she a little more as beholds her eyes mine, yet ascertain I thy reflection.

She cries "Mother!".