Woman you were not created to conceive
Your conceiving has led to deceiving and screaming
The irony of having a fruitful womb
Is that the fruit it bears is bound to end up in a tomb
Resurrected but still doomed.
You see it as a miracle
But the flower that from these fruits have bloomed
Is left feeling hysterical.
This life has no pinnacle.
Oh can't you see the turns and turmoil, hear the curses, witness the unfruitful soil.
This is all because of that one step that was taken that in truth is deeply unnatural.
Into this world of terror you brought children.
All that they have come to know is the mortifying feeling of being utterly distraught.
A road you've many a time before traveled once again unraveled. You've walked here three times before but finally you stumbled upon a thing you adore and equally adores you in return.
You say all your past books are burned, but your reactions still mostly makes you seem disturbed. Your heart has grown selfish and cold,
Perhaps because of the fear of growing old.
But the core of your soul is turned to stone.
Your cold soul has left the mirror image of you feeling as though in this life she is nothing but terribly alone.
This facade you've designed protects you from feeling like all your interpretations have misaligned. As long as you keep praising the sublime, you think none of the evil seeds you've sowed will reep in due time?
A seed hath sprouted and now walks through life with dragging feet and a heart humming on a flatline. Oh sweet mother of mine, sighs this sweet child of thine.