Tempest Storms Our Mothers Host | Sacred Places of Spirit

jagged jangled tangled mess
holy souls go unblessed
shards of spite from mothers lips
in words lay twisted
waiting, baiting

tempest storms our mothers host
nauseous, raucous, edgy boast
free to spit and claw and nail
daughtered souls fractured, frail

left to mourn and weep and wail
splattered, shattered, tattered hell
cannot our mothers see the we
of love bereft
our souls defiled,
our hearts beguiled?

what wrath is this a mother’s weaving
a cloth that cloaks a daughter’s grieving?
raw and cold with misery
womanchild her strength undone
her song unsung
her heart unstrung

torrid burning, yearning, churning
in angst the cries amidst the lies
we daughters flail and rail unheard
splintered timbre, spirit spurned
on the ground in pieces lay

no peace does find the womanchild
her thoughts abandoned, running wild
she cannot soothe the savaged beast
within her soul in darkness keep

we daughters wincing mincing fearing
guilt ferocious fiercely rearing
binding yielding giving in
a daughter’s breath collapsing

torpid still numb and stagnant
listless
dormant
silent
gone.