It occurred to me, today, whilst in bed, that my mother did not wake,
Neither in melancholy, nor in weeping, in her burning bed. She did
not wake for my tears, but only her own; in the lamentation of the
sorrows of self. She was not a mourner of melody, nor felt she struck
by envious wrath of God. Instead, dearest mother of mine, did you sit
and wait for the howl of the pain of your own to guide your fleeting
feelings and sentiment. You would not howl for me, oh matriarch,
and yet I howl for you, Adonais for his mother; tragic introversion.
We will not be the first or last to love inversely, some things simply
bend and break, circle back and spiral to you, becoming who you are.
You will not howl for me, Melancholy Mother, you will not wake now.
But I will one day quench my fiery tears within my burning bed, and
One day will I rise, the motherless Adonais; clear of sprite in the lust