As maternal callings summon our discomforts.
We are our only element sunken from the roots we came from,
Birthed in Aztec drums and raw howls.
We spent the weekend not counting time but dew drops
As they kissed our synthetic cocoons.
Greeting us from our sweltered slumber,
some plum bruises some just blue.
Bathed in sticky shields our armour was our clothing
Stripping bare the nettle lips stung us numb,
As we wavered like fickle fools midst the conscious realm
And wore out our fingers and our thumbs.
My quaint stream of conscious unconsciousness
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