I hope the figures
that leap bounds over seas
and pique skips through rivlets
do not remember
their premeditated conception,
the writhing of two forces,
their constant leeching of daylight,
and the violent catastrophe
that birthed them
in the forsaken night.
How can I bear to tell them
there were those before?
How can I bear to tell them
there will be more?
How can I bear to say
they are simply vessels
to an expected encore?
How shall I tell my beauties
that their mother
is a color-scheming whore?
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Submission Name: Bravo
