The Mother.

The woman who was my mother

claimed she never really loved me

and stole my clock one night to

get back at me.

She said it was for reasoning only,

and getting the clock was a way

of showing the passage of time.

Clocks tick for a reason;

and tock for always.

Sometimes we do not know what that

reason is,

or if it is even worth it.

At night, when I am laying in my bed,

I realize I am alone,

like a great auk on the bright blue water,

dipping its neck towards the obsidian

sky,

howling at the blank sun.

She said she cared about me at one point,

and the feeling went away soon after

I was born.

And nothing is more or less a miracle

than something,

and one day moves on to the next.

Some people are always alone,

like great, winged things that take flight

in the sky,

and the darkness is vast and we are vast also.

I feel a cold shadow of dread moving through

me,

and one day fades to the next and I am

by myself again,

and everything is the same as it was before

the light came.