Mother can I cling to memories, at will,
like a book flipping to a page, that one
wants to read most, summarising the
prologue and epilogue? Would you feel
the grief of a one-page tome torn into
a humongous tatter of sheafs that can
no longer be comprehensible to what was
the primary entity that dropped a little iota of ink.
Would you weep at the febrile, enervation of watching
the spaces turn so deep and far due to a rapine
as if the singular cut that caused the wound
protracted the wound to its infinity. I only wanted the womb
as if longing to say, Mother, it is only the first words
that I uttered in the dimension, love and light,
and all that I cherished belonged to that creation. It being
just a point, just an anagoge simply existing
in its eloquent exotic exuberation; not an analogue
of variations. No multitude of particles that was
so cruelly flung from my originality. It is not my
reflection, this vast affliction! But an imposition
of hostility on me. I have been uglied by an evil perpetrator
who ripped me off, to force me to an extremity,
hoping I just relinquish it all to him or submit to him,
which I don’t intend to do and never will; thus compelling
me to foster the disparateness and alienation of my substances
and forget all that eternity that was once a composite
beauty in a dot of immense density!
montes-musings.blog 