Like A Mother

Mental rips,

like folded paper

creases, wearing on the soul -

a forgiveness sot

or perhaps...

a broken sword

or maybe a mother...

the person who ask..... always

if you’re alright.

 

But then you think...

the conscious

is like a good heart -

but -  a bad liar.

Then tears like ink

have dried

and their shadows
show the stains...
to tell a story
where the heart remains.
 
Then view these smudges

as if they were darkness -

and not the light...

one wishes to see.

Like a mother...

the person who ask..... always
if you’re alright.