I call on the moon, the stars
and I crave the best for my carved scars
I churn out a vague bale in the dim that
takes over my dreams and nightmares
In the morning, weary, as usual
still bearing the pain,
the pain of a dead mother,
hardly spitting out the pain
bottling the sourwood tears in the inn
tearing myself apart towards the new moon's sin
staging lies to reach out,
I cannot wait, cannot wait to
sleep under the moon, my mother
calling, clearing your name
towards the gardens you uttered
for the daughters you tamed
