mother, mother

mother, mother
have the flowers ever really been there
the bright colors that once adorned
the buffet cluttered with your mess
and why did the sun have to go down
on childhood at such an early age
an approach that sprang from the hall
a grip encapsulating and surrounding a confused one
although knowledgeable enough to know
it was not right, not natural
not a pure indulgence

and the stories that flooded a mind
and sought refuge in forgotten memories
they were for no rhyme or reason
that the one could see
and see, and see, and see
the fear and darkness they brought
to an otherwise sunny Saturday afternoon
repressed not to be dealt with
repressed and locked away
though fester they still did unbeknownst
and to this day they remain unknown
and does it really matter
now that death has put away
mother, mother


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