Mother’s love devours all fine senses,
Seeks to serve each child with greatest hope,
Benign in love, she covers all the bases
Except the blindest spot; the hanging rope.
The weakness no self perceives, created
By the loving hand of nurture held too tight.
Submerged devotion cherished, now berated
When Achilles’ defect comes too soon to light.
It’s possibly true there are no answers, just questions that abound.
At least that’s how it seems, sometimes. I’ve questioned then I’ve found
That nothing makes a lot of sense and even when it does
Shit happens for no reason. I wonder then because,
If I can’t make the heads or tails of all that’s going on,
What chance is there I get to sing my own special song?
We all have one, I have no doubt, a song made just for one,
Born with us and grown with us; desperate to be sung.
A harmony, that only we, can hear within our soul,
Hummed in time to all we do, trying to make us whole.
Listen well. I’ll listen too and maybe we will hear
The lyrics and the melody, pitched to make us cheer
At all the ways we can express what lies way deep inside.
Then maybe, we may fine-tune life and sing our song with pride.
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