The Mother.

I woke up amongst the toil and frigid lock.

Taciturn, still I'm holding thought.

Like balls of yarn spinning round 

And round and round 

Collecting daylight in ragged threads.

All For this, a marring hustle, lead by 

The hum of our beating hearts

In the barrels of a ghost.

How great, the bellows churn, 

When old light plays an overture 

In the waves of someone elses dust.

This room conceals whats been lost.

And those made in it,

Are the only perfect reflection of me.

But yet, i dont know how 

I could call a single space, my own.

So, I wait to gather what is left behind.

These little things I find, 

Remind me that I am named, 

Though without certainty,

Chained to the nothing knot

And gone before yesterday.

Jasmine Allen ©