PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I see the anxious children stare into mother`s face

Children with sunken eyes shying off

digging secrets of truth

from the mounds of yesterday.



At my dilapidated hut, i sip my coffee

from an old, rusty, flowery mug, daydreaming,

about the great days of plenty

When life was leaner, so they say

When the moon didn`t have a patch of crimson

On its creamy body.Every man smiled then, at least.



But where is my day?Dreams, half-baked groan

Beneath their own weight because we placed

the heavy logs on mother`s back;

With her blood drawn she pays for our sins



But from that sweat of blood on her face

Shall spring a bourgeoning source

Where springs shall curve out their course.



When my lungs fill with breath again,

i shall breath into her soul

I shall nurse her nerves,too,

with milk and sweat.