Love
I hate packing suitcases
It reminds me of when mama left
She hastily packed her suitcase
Just before she quit the door, she looked at me
As though she was going to grasp me with her
My watery eyes, trembling to fall down
My throat burned with anger
Longing for her sanctified adoration
"You are going to be well, love," said she
Turned the other way
Banging the door behind her
I must have made her that angry
Destructive than the door she bunged
I slept in my bed for days long, nights long
Crying for my dear mother,
I was sorry that she bore me torment
Or did I?
She returned not after long years but grey and fray
She met the woman that the child girl raised
A powerful mind, an alluring woman.
They talk of thousand safaris
Souvenir tourists must have bliss
Mine was an expedition off hell
Of a broken child and relic battling to birth the woman.
"Hello, love," said she broking down
I looked at her, a rugged person in need of love
Since my mother died on that day, she left recklessly
I sheltered her in care; she deserved nought
Universal bidding, pine and call on my palms
The rest of her regretful life was bitter herb to swallow
I taught her to be grateful, not regretful
I watch her die for the second time
This time, I have been so full.
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