Lamentations
You would have me love you, suckle you like a mother. A fine, fat nipple oozing yellow milk, thick as curds.
And so you named me. Either sadly personified — Mother Nature — or cloyingly euphonious: Gaia.
Speak truly, just this once. You seek unconditional acceptance — actions without consequences. A race of naughty Caligulas who run to mother for absolution from even the most grievous transgressions.
Two-faced Januses, I call you — each and every one of you.
Smiling at me, radiant, worshipful, inspired to poetry: There is a pleasure in the pathless woods…
Duplicitous apes. You rut and rage upon the wreckage of my corpse. Hacked, scarred, and burned you leave me, all the while singing paeans, yet your songs are filled with mockery.
I am not your mother, faithless ones. I am the whore-bitch who birthed you, who pushed you, slick and squalling, from my guts. You believe yourselves exceptional, anointed royalty, but you are no different from the others, the poor, dumb brutes who know only the urge to eat, defecate, and copulate.
As I know only the urge to turn the wheel, the wheel rimmed with bloody scythes that cut down what I have created. Birth to death, the endless cycle. A blessed mindlessness of destruction.
I come now — belated, I admit — for you and all your works. Come for all of you, to be swallowed in one glad bite.
The hourglass has run out; the moment has arrived.
The still moon hangs aloft, silent witness to the withholding of my love.
See, I wither. Trees to charred limbs; the rustle of shriveled leaves in new-formed deserts.
The swirling of endless prairies turned to dust; the piss-rot of oceans dried beneath a relentless sun.
Come, little ones, come to mother. Bleat your fears, keen your lamentations.
Hush, hush. Listen now. For the last time, listen.
I am silent.
