Melon Balled Crown

The Sprite of the Babbled,

a gas to hand held ream,

the swipe that erased,

an application to every spring.

The creaking of the bones in ply,

the burrow of the vestal spy,

the Judas Kiss from Mothered times,

the dream so told that she was sold.

The fodder found that maternal role,

was pailed  for the shrew,

to think that the act perceived,

to actual follow through.

I cast upon the Worlds wrong,

no matter to the strength of wrong,

my mother is loved by this so strong,

I testify as witness of,

the ugliness under Minded subbed.

The breakfast nook to apple look,

the dreaming of her old friend shook,

me to the core of skinned by scored,

the words that poured from her adore,

made shame to hugs and telling floored.

The sight of this approach,

timed with a different Coach,

the calls be made the phone in trades,

yet nothing stopped the blaring raids,

a hole left in the brain.

The scene to view was outside true,

to nature I do love,

the Fern was burned with standing stern,

protection gone to open yawn,

the walk to drive away,

no directions gave the say,

the temper of that Mother's Day.

Volatile rash of firing back,

this person lit the words of formed,

with trashing pictured verses learn,

taking, taking than in spake,

"I know we are on the same page."

The horror in me was silently,

reminded of a child deed,

the day I saw another bleed,

in similar distract.

I did not stare at what was blare,

for in the Act the Cut exact,

made an example of the walking shove,

from times that liken age to five,

the years of strange to stolen vibe.