The need for her daughter,
Is that of the love for the souls fight to remain in body, after being shot,
Is that of a trees power to remain rooted to ground, when being hacked at,
Soil moist, from being pulled
but the trunk remains adamant,
stuck in ground
Like removing glass from flesh,
it will remain a few inches too far,
Don’t touch or it will cut you,
It does everything in its power to remain grounded, unfound
Her love will always be that much deeper,
Angelic sounds will be heard leaving her mouth
You could try to encapsulate what she feels in a bottle, but what a fight you will have,
This intangible emotion that rages through her eyes,
Cannot be captured within syllables, cursives, or poetry,
Only hymns in another tongue,
or maybe the dance between two lovers on their first encounter,
Its as if her body starts to convulse
Jittering in the absence of her daughter, her love,
causes silent deaths within each breath,
Like shatters of that same shard they shot her with,
Her red billowing hair, with a body like a temple,
Come pray at the feet of this woman and you will find home in her,
She is the symbol of an oak tree, a warrior amongst this tribe of lost people,
She carries the blood that runs through the children of war,
Rich but never bitter,
In the absence of her child, of her love,
Her mind overthrows any other need,
But to give, to give, and to give,
To give love to her daughter,
Like the hearts need to beat,
Like the eyes need to blink,
The hands reaction to clench,
Your legs and how they groove to rhythm,
The way your irises gloat in hunger when facing beauty,
The weight of love cannot be carried in alphabets, ,
Only told in stories, even poetry can only offer a slice of patched heart,
I watch her with her daughter sometimes,
I longingly watch from the side-lines,
How her secrets are wrapped up in flowers and vine leaves,
In plates full of spiced food, the scent of warmth ridden within curries,
Oh and how she holds her,
Never show hers hurt, never show hers harm,
Only embraces that create home within chests,
A house with 4 walls, a roof, in between ribs,
Never bruised, a heart
A heart that doesn’t bleed hate,
Only drips in wine and sugar,
Like melted buttercups on summer evenings,
She shows me what love is,
And amongst all of this,
Blood love,
She gifts me this warm feeling to,
And how grateful I am.