Fallen, but not discarded.
Her value lies not in her
ability to contain
her chaos within set seams,
clutch remnants when brute tidal
waves beat against her dormers,
but in her audacity
to bloom down in the trenches.
Roses tend to be rather less roses this way,
but hailstones, Nature’s Mafia,
convinced you that life would be safer,
cast in the role of ‘Victim in a Puddle’.
You tremble in your cement boots.
Extortion always exacts a price, unequally applied.
Your grip on reality relaxed
and here you lie,
‘She Was a Good Mother’ carved on your tombstone.
Your fall was silent,
a gradual descent into madness,
and only the stars