The Path of Least Persistence - Figure II - Shannon Wright

There goes your mother and her plague

What a terrible display

Of a charcoaled tongue

That wouldn’t lend a hand

Though this dead was a thoughtless act

With alcohol intact

Quietly she seeks the day to pass

With those stitches that you clean

You hold your flag of your doleful plea

Now there’s nothing left to recall

A fruitless title bestowed

Amongst someone you could never know

In this plight of this dismay

This thickness of your plague

She’s a realm that’s lost her way