‘The Dying Mother’’

The dying mother

A symbol of life itself, her blood oozes black from the crude cracks along her coarse skin.

The men… they grow giddy sharing in the wealth of her pain. Poking, prodding and penetrating at will, fueled by their selfish desires, indifferent to the turn of their souls, all for foolish gain.

Her tears don’t phase them. Her screams go unanswered. Her blows do little damage to these well-cushioned fiends. She endures yet her heart beat slows. They don’t notice how little of the black blood now flows.

Their spawn leach at her tit, comforted amidst chaos from birth through death. Others gather to her aid but it is near too late – their efforts seemingly in vain. The brutish men stake claim on her, issuing death to those opposed.

Some choose self preservation. Others would risk death to save such a beautiful being. Some are far off – oblivious to the heinous deed. And still others attempt to bring support but when those brutish men take aim her only protectors begin to fall like rain