Mountains reach up for fame,
In the form of airy preservation,
Only to be split asunder,
By the jealousy of a woman.
She picks up the pieces,
Transofrmed into a caring mother:
Hatred tears down that which can’t be loved.
The birthing-mason lays the shards sideways,
To cover more ground instead of sky.
“Lay them flat” she whisper-assures,
“So more, which is better-than-better, eyes may see”.
Makeshift plateaus replace the majestic stone kings,
Bringing comfort in the place of awe,
Because they know when to know their place.
The re-(de)constructor admires her work,
For a moment her chest swells with pride.
Not a moment too late,
For fear of losing herself in lust-of-self,
She levels out,
Pushing the pride away,
Like a bother-bug,
Taking a hammer to her confused child-tower,
Pick-, slam-, hammer-, cracking away.
Duty-bound restraint binds boulders together,
Instilled by force of fear of bringing the dreams of clouds back.
Mother-murderer slams too hard:
“Who do you think you are?”
And willpower slips,
Letting meteor-shower tears fall like sediment,
Gaining speed, pushed by an unburdening release through cry of mouth,
And then:
Justifiable matricide that brings peace.

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