29 Feb 2024
I imagine her waiting there in the harbour,
but I know she is down some side street,
bleeding out.
I see her looking off to sea,
waiting,
rather than on her side,
her hand to her hip,
trying to hold back the flow.
She stole her place from another,
but one cannot begrudge his mother.
She was an imposter,
but she was our imposter.
She could be saved,
but her children do not desire it.
They long for her death,
even though it will mean their own.
They resent what she represents.
They resent her high talk -
perhaps they are tired of the lies upon which it is built.
She is bleeding out -
they watch in scorn.
She is bleeding out -
they wait to tear apart what is left of her.
Goodbye,
mother!
Aroha nui,
Lee Sturgis
leesturgis.eth
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