For the life of me,
what comes of mothers milk?
When she becomes an echo and I have
to look to find any trace of her at all.
What becomes of the life of me
when she has martyered herself, dull rays radiating
from her forhead,
given all her fruits and all of her labors
and here I am, part of her vine and yet
cut off from it.

I will start my own tree, but still ache for my roots.

For the life of me,
how to forgive the tide of missed moments
of forgotten 'I love you's'
untill life is no more 'I love you's'
and just good-bye's.

08/29/2006

Posted on 08/29/2006
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