City's Malady
Take us into the folds of your tattered skirt –
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
buried in smog reeking of mirth
carry stones in their chest like men.
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Carry stones in their chest like men -
cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears.
Hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Mother, will your children still remember
how you cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears
as dark fumes taint your pure laughter
O mother, we are testaments to your decay
so take us into the folds of your tattered skirt,
and rot with us in our shared tomb of ashen gray
buried in smog, reeking of mirth.
Copyright © Therese Genota | Year Posted 2015
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