The faucets of this glass
which always lie true
are engraved with words -
Mother, I love you.
Your voice echoes long
in this hollow domain:
"Tha needs teh get the sen a coat lass
afore goin' out in teh rain."
Your humour extinguished;
embraces of ice -
surrounded by anger
and encased in 'nice'.
Nice drawing you say
or that essay looks nice,
But I can't be a writer;
no, there's more to entice.
You push me to reach
vast heights that evade -
fragile heart splinters
on the dreams that we've made.
These faucets have broken
and truth lies askew.
The fragments are spelling -
Mother, I love you.
_____________________________________
I wrote it today for my mother, never to be viewed by her eyes. Comments?
