The Mother Of Wine And Grace. Poem by Luke Nicholson

Mother, thee i do adore.

Wilting and you wilt.

Sinking through the taste of deep, rich wine you have grown so accustomed to and through the sweet the bitter weed blossoms, laughing.

Mother, thee i do adore.

How different a life could have been if you had been taken to a musical and given a word of encouragment, a touch of self worth but we all know clearer paths elude tainted souls dont we ma.

Wilting and you wilt.

I will not pity you as you would not pity me. Every royal knows how much trouble i caused you but were mother and son, so the pattern was obvious.

I push, forever pushing closer and closer, while you douse the last few sparks of your light and silence the little girl with the cut head with that deep, rich wine.

Mother, thee i do adore and a decloration.

Mother, thee i do thank.

Our love is worth forty and a penny and without the swings and blows in terraced walls, the replacment to my education and the most tender of centres, i would not be doing what i am right now, rising.

Wilt no more.

Rise!

Rise with me now mother!

Let us rise togther and mend one another with a long embrace, an anecdote and a glass that is always full and tastes of possibility.

Rise mother, thee i do thank.