Darkly Burnt Toast

I used to think the world of you

but now I only think the desert.

Dry

and barren;

cracked in the most vital

places.

Your once venerable motherhood-

struck down by

your own fruition.

These years:

Spread like brie in front

of us,

as clockwork.

Ticking biologically with

each

fleeting

moment…

You don’t cry at even hours

because the ducts

are but dust in the sockets,

and you’ve lost

control

over darkly burnt toast

at mid-morning.

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