my mother is
breaking down,
stitch by stitch,
she becomes less of the woman i knew her to be.
last night
i saw her cry
the way i do in secret.
puffy eyed
red nosed
sorrow.
i thought
she was made of
ash and gold.
strong,
my mother.
i thought
my mother never cracked.
the city
By -aesthete-
and no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow ... More