To My Mother

To my Mother,

At the beginning, you were there

Also, perhaps at the end

Time will tell.

My sickness will be present

If you can heal it, do.

If you can heal it, try.

The darkness is so fast.

So real, the darkness.

To write poetry is hard too

Especially given all that I owe you

You are not the maker of my sickness

But you are the maker of me

My sickness knows my name

My sickness has my number

Whatever I tell it, it forces me to remember

Forever

Time destroys everything

Yet, has no true meaning

A kind of Neverland

But no friends, no adventure

All things begin, so all things end

We are stuck in the margin

Without the terminus

Without the meaning

Sincerely,

Your Son