What of my Mother?
By Wenne Madyt Dengs (A poet and journalist)
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I am your shield
I am the sole of your shoes
I am the cap that covers your bald head
I am the bed that carries your fatties
You fart and I have never held my nose
You have stopped thinking about my mother
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My mother, my mother, my mother
She cries day to day
She is naked and thin-legged
Toothless and bottomless
She is still wearing CPA-aged underwear
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My mother, my mother, my mother
She has become the residence of all maladies
I am hearing that she lives under the tree
Because you have branded all your built-ups with covetousness wording
That “NO TRESPASSING …!”
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My mother, my mother, my mother
My eyes are dried
They are subjected to objectivity
Presuming to protect
Who is consuming your shares
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Mother, I am still your son though I am at the sun!
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Writer can be reached through: wennemadyt63@gmail.com
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