An infant’s crying at the top of its lungs,
The woman who birthed to it is not its mother – She lacks instinct.
So it screams its voice dry and cries its eyes shut
There’s a humming beat at the pit of her stomach.
The woman who kept it does not care for it
So it dreams of a palm that glides on its skin like feathers on thin air
And a voice to wish it to unconsciousness
It hears a sound that whistles like vintage steam trains,
That short, awakening burst of steel in motion
It fails to hear the sadistic thoughts lead on by neglect from the woman who birthed it, but isn’t its mother.
At the pit of her stomach,
There’s a beat which hovers over her eardrums like a guilty conscious
The sounds that calls from the pit are the loud screams of an child that knows love, but not to receive it
With an ear to her belly
You’ll hear heavy cries and silent laughs of a child that knows happiness, but not how to reach it
It cries at the top of its lungs
Without nurture – it lacks instinct,
So it screams its voice dry and fails to cry its eyes shut.
. . .
It’s heart beats too loud of a lullaby for it to sleep