The Mother and The Real

For T.

 

For me, The Real, the washer of soiled hands and the catcher of harsh sunsets, that doesn’t whine or lift or sit around and pet egos of presumptuous frauds—with bearded suppositions that all things they think are right or perfect just as they are.

 

To suggest different, to mock my pain, to try and stifle my feelings just as they come pouring from my mouth, does nothing but stir the flames of my inner disdain: for you and your kind—as The Mother: your wayward ambitions never fly south.

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