She poured Hell
from her cauldron
and burned the feet
of her many children.
They, such soft things,
made cuts in their mother
that mismatched
their sharpening.
But, mother is never wrong.
She can make more children,
when these are done.
The newborns will see
the burnt carcasses
slowly being eaten
by the roots
and the weeds
and hopefully respect
their mother.
Because, she waits
by the cauldron,
warmed by Hell’s kindling,
ready to burn
any and all
misbehaving children.
©️ Obol, 2019.
ugh, this poem hit me really really hard
Sorry if it brought you down. We’re certainly in difficult times. Thank you for commenting 🙏
It didn’t bring me down. It’s a beautiful piece, really.
Thank you so much
Thank you for sharing this!
You are quite welcome, Nathan!