Where The Grass Grows

My Mother

My mother; a decrepit being
Who's skin worn old
Her boney soul lost to the war
My mother; a decrepit being

My mother had her mothers eyes
And perhaps with that came great pain
Like spindles that prick the fingers tip
And thread that doesn't quite quilt right
She was born from the seed of pain
That her mother had once burried
And hoped for her daughter to water
But we all know how that goes
And it's not quite right

My mother has her fathers anger
Booming and loud
It's thick and heavy like syrup
Reminds me of pancakes
But bitter and old
She has a worn voice
That cracks sometimes in the place of anger
My mother yields her fathers grief
Perhaps she was born on the battlefield
That he once fought in
The bombs still blow and the blood still shows
And it's not quite right

My mother has the imprint of my father
Branded like cattle; like an animal
She holds the grooves of my fathers fists
And she burns in the fire he doused her in
My mother carries the weight of my fathers stones
Slung over her shoulder and back
She'll say "it weighs nothing you see"
And "it'll be alright"
When it weighs everything
And nothing is quite right

And my mother; aged by children
Whose faces carry the likeness of their father
And who've stolen her youth
She'll say "it was worth it to get you"
And "I always loved you that was the easy part"
When really nothing was ever easy
Nor ever quite right

My mother; a decrepit being
Who's skin and soul has worn old
Who's heart has splintered and fallen apart
Who's eyes carry the pain of generations before her
She is what life culminates to
A wilting flower in the breach of spring
And winter
My mother; a decrepit being

Decrepit beings
Are what made my mother.