Alack! Mother dear, you are dead.
Against my will thy soul has fled,
If” brooding” did have a tense in past, my “brooding” nature t’would be “bred.”
Not stricken -- only faded:
Blood letted, blanched boils and pox abraded.
Thy breast taken from me,
Only She could have loved me.
Thy Mother’s succor ever effulgent-y.
My home was once thy womb-
Now thy mortal self is entombed.
As life leaves thee a putrid effusion
I love you in de-compostion.”