Snug about my neck
A mother's embrace
Filling me, top to bottom
With warmth and nostalgia
Handwoven, painstakingly
I recall the clanging of the knitting
The soft hufts of breaths from nearby
I was perched on the arm of the chair
On which Mother sat in, or rather
Engulfed, in a faded pink cushy chair
Sinking into its embrace
Mother knows her children best
No colourful colours she knitted
Instead, the bleakness of death
The darkest of black was it
Black around my neck, yet
You could say it again and again,
Dark like death's embrace even
How could such a dull empty colour
Devoid of emotion, feeling, a mere void
(Or am I imagining it?)
How could this black, darkness,
Encapsulate such deadly warmth
That heats everything cold
Icy, absolute zero even,
My neck feel so, so warm in it
Yes, I can feel it
Warm hands around my neck
Hugging, pressing me close
I am a child once more in the ever huge
Ever everlasting, ever forgiving embrace
Of Mother
Oh yes, the warmth, so real, so tangible
It is exactly a mother's embrace
I feel it, Mother
Can you?
YOU ARE READING
Tears Of The Rose
شِعرA. Ton. Of. Random. Poems. Just warning you. The poem that inspired the title of this book: Tears of the Rose A rose Is a prickly thing Armed with barbed thorns Stinging like thousands of merciless Bees that hover protectively Over their prize. Rose...
