The day my mother chose me, a flame was ignited.
Her fertility, abundance and generosity fed this light of mine.

Until the shimmering radiance of a mid morning’s sun paled in comparison,

To my warmth,

My kindness,

My compassion.
Fuck, I was a blazing fucking inferno.

I was strength.

I was power.

I was peace.

I was fucking fire.
Until the day my mother came calling.

It was my turn to deliver unto her, what she had to me.

I was to keep that cold hearth aflame.

Ensure bitterness and loneliness did not leave a forever stain upon the greatness of her.
The chill of the morticians scythe must be kept at bay.

For she could no longer sustain.

She could no longer give.

She could no longer share.
She was tired, her body withered and frail.

Her endless bounty of life, and life-giving shrivelled.

Not unlike the corpse of a roadside animal,

Skin and bones rotten with disdain.
Her time had come and all that remained was a emptiness where my flame once lived.

She had gone, but I was stuck.

Lingering within coals lukewarm from memories,

dithering amidst the smoke.

Moments of Joy.

And passion.

And serenity.

Littered amidst the embers of a dying flame.
How could I exist without you, my mother?

How could You leave me stranded amongst your ruinous remains?

How could I exist without you, my mother?

How could You leave me alone?