M O S A I C

Life Without Death

They killed him.
Again.
Of no consequence.
Death cannot hide from himself.
Except…
They did hide him from himself.
Scattered the fragments on every which side.
And every moment she waits and waits
But slowly the weight of her never ending time settles around her and tugs free her sorrow like an out of control tide.

She cannot sense where or when he's gone to this time.
And she crumbles,
So slowly,
Into a ball and just cries.
A volcano into a mountain.
All of her heat trapped and dwindling on the inside.

But for all her suffering they cannot simply leave her to mourn to her own rhyme.
They poke and they prod.
"Stop making such a big deal about it.
You act like this every time.
We love you and wish only to be near you.
That is why we always plot his demise.
But when we've gotten rid of him,
You become this.
Why won't you just smile?"

And her furious magma flickers back to life.
She drags them by two fingers lodged in their throat across the universe to their own home.
This palace they built for themselves from all her stolen treasures.
Is an open tomb they decorated for her grieving pleasure.
She sinks their feet down so they set into the melted gold floor.
She strings up their arms to the crystal chandeliers with the intestines they no longer have any use for now that death is gone.

There she tortures them all day since there is no more night.
Their suffering,
Like her own,
Can now never die.

They never rot,
But they reek,
Ever fresh
Like fish blood.

Always aware.
They can never sleep,
Always remembering that this is a consequence of what they themselves have done.
And in case through the incessant noise of their minds they find themselves at peace in a disassociated quiet,
She strings up their children to the sky
So they can scream them back to life,
"Look at what you've done to us!"
And there are always more children.
Forever being born.
Always more malignant lesions on the skin.
Always growing.
Always sore.

This is the mother who's attention they so desperately always need.
That they would take away her peace and her ability to sleep.
But a tired mother is a tortuous thing.
The never setting sun scorches and stings.

And for all her cruelty
She dances in their tombs.
Never at ease,
Drunk on their suffering and booze.
And even when she collapses.
She can never end.
The onslaught of memories about the times when things could end.
_________________________________

Author's Note:

This is a story that I was and am going to incorporate into a future prose project some time in the future. But... The way she mourns for being separated from  her husband just came to me all at once in poetry... Is it dark? Absolutely. And it was a pleasure to write. *Claps* 😊
It was such fun.

Hope you like it! 💕💕
- Rose