Baronhawk's Nest

A mother's love,
is beyond compare,
her very heart,
beats not for herself,
her every breath,
all of her care,
her very life,
all she gave,
of herself,
are for her children,
family and ken,
her love the lifeblood,
flowing in their veins,
her only hope,
for all to remain,
ever in good graces,
and without chagrin,
 there is no greater,
sacrifice that one can,
than to be a mother,
for she lives not for her self.

A poem is a photograph of a moment,
entombed in lines stanzas words,
nuanced by nouns vocabulary diction,
etched by the tell tales of the verbs.

I tip toe atop
stringing along

all flip flops
across the line

the wire thin
colour sublime

daylight sleeps
and night define

of clearest blue
and red untinged

pigmented beats
and hearts aflame

a dictator's fate
empire's make

the cloak of kings
and prince's capes

the bruised thumb
of egos struck

the mark within
that stark refrain

of tinsel tinted
course de main

I HATE pink butterflies!
I hate pink butterflies...

Even when poised,
upon a sigh.

I hate pink butterflies...

Even when nudging,
that pretty smile.

I hate pink butterflies...

Even when pursing,
that cute-sy pout.

I HATE pink butterflies!
I hate pink butterflies...

We find hope,
in the possible,
in what may come,
though we know
the inevitable,
no change is bound,
life's fleeting,
time's fast flow,
and love lies numb.