Somnolent winds entered the wound of a dead oak
The warm winged followers of Southeastern traditions sung
Beneath the cider seams of a herd of clouds

My suffering was not nameless
She was called mother

A cradled cotton napkin held a passing girl
Alone in an unkempt room
I buried my constitution
And slept under the skin of rain

 

 

 

 

Photo Source:Righteous Monster