mother

By , chelsea, MA
you are like the seasons controversial and you fight to deliver a message but the signal is poor
you have your future descendants that link you both ways forwad and backwards
you hold them in your arms not expecting their growth to unravel so swiftly
it pains you when they yell vile things in your way you would rather be deaf
gray hairs become known to your sight in the mirror than
wrinkles of joy and of grief reveal themselves
a secret is your love a truth is your hate.





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