Blanket Soils

Was love my mistake?
What would I understand of it?
Sacrifice and guilt,
It's all a valve of disorienting clammer in the heart of the youth
and it does clammer my heart so.
In my arms, I cradle a tragedy, born into flesh and dead as I will be
and I kiss its eyes, for they will never open again to see what they have done
only to find the taste still on my frosted lips.
I wish to be born again in the arms of Mother
and to feel her sweet kiss above my brow
and to never open the eyes of the child who is bound to sleep for all of eternity.
I hold him close to my breast as I place his carcass on the stone bed
and fold his arms over his chest.
Mother, hold his hands which are so stiff
and warm his heart so he may not weep.
Pick the flesh from his bones ever so gently
so he may not only rest in the calm waters of peace,
but also in the blanket soils of love.