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My mother’s love is like no other one,
When asking for her love she responds, “why”?
For in her household childhood seemed fun,
Young days were great when looking at the sky.
With her, my love grew larger with each day,
Her gentle breath would speak at night with love.
My embers burned for her when time turned May,
Love much but lasts, it flies as though a dove.
But doves are shot; no hope they have to live,
Now spins the sky, it turns love into hate.
My mother has no giving left to give,
Her wicked ways will drive dark to her fate.
Love beams of warmth no longer fill my heart,
Her actions, thus, will lead us far to part.