Life be gentle.

Make a mama find kind, calm center while the waves of grief can malice cluster.

She won't be taken down, no matter how the undercurrent pulls.

Thirst Burn

Call to that day when my burn went mute and the thirst ached, for the bottle did tip toward an open lesson throat flute.

It did beside Ocean mouth.

She poured out-loud-thunder that made no sense at all.  Then black came and washed memory to learn some pain, see some pain.

Mama did say.

Papa did say.

Husband did say, enough please.

My brain became muddy and my feet were numb up veins to heart.  Her voice did keen.

A cover was made when the sour juice made way down, so sweet and lack of vain.  

But the hurt remained.

Lost.

New grey and I watched the downed fawn lay.

Weak in the lead, unable to try and beat the off-balance down for her eyes were braided shut to the sadness brewing stale from over-heat.

Always was the Lost when the grief voice was pushed muted for fear of the limbo path. 

That sickening temptation made wild to hide behind cloaked wine madame.

Coat and numb the secret pain of uncertain steps.

The family ground did shake and questions arose asking, how do you wick up this mess you created?

With gentle, sore tongue I lick the wounds repeatedly, ritually so the burn does not ache thirst again.