Monday, October 2, 2017

An ode to a Mom can bring you repose.

Prayers in her shrine are gifts of Fifi, to hang on a tree, Mexicana de La Senda.

May you always have your Guardian Angel to guide you, protect you, defend you, to bump that demon flat off the shoulder opposed, to bring stars, as to come and go in shimmy of light, to sprinkle remnants, a collectible spritz of gilded sparkles trailed, tailed off the roundabout comet of eons, upon which she lights in a wisp, and up she rides, harp, pluck, harpoons, love dust to cross your ways, and wipe away the tears, when you least expect her.

Your powerful Mom takes her place, the one who gained utmost glory down here as passing Form and then suffered sudden misfortune of the greatest earthly loss, the death of her boy, her part from her man, the only love she ever loved in a passion, never to replace, who kisses your St. Valentine's lips.

So then you fade, "Good night, my dear boy," as whispers come tooth fairy bliss, into the wild phantasmagoria of deep slumber, unfathomable and wondrous ebony dark, but for one silver shard nightlight minimal bulb, soft as pillow fluff, as she brings haste, to chase away the unspeakables, cruel, cruel confinement profiteers, the masquerade ball of do-good sour-puss, my spoilings of late, my loves of this Hope.

So leave it up to Mom to solve, to Riddle unpack, she of broken wing, now Lording above, on wind she soars now, ever wide of breast, as you navigate well, under her care, which never runs dry.

Now go ahead. Sob! You need it now.

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