Childhood Trauma

She rests in Autumn leaves with a smile of spiders;
they've replaced her lullaby and her kiss.
I lie beside her and beg for resurrection,
and I whisper to her heart how much she is missed,

but she wont get warm.
She wont get warm.

Blood is splattered on the family album.
There’s a pool coagulating on the floor.
The hammer fell, but I’m feeling no justice.
I can’t feel anything any more.

She wont get warm.
She wont get warm.

Outside a church I stood in the rain.
Something is calling me into the wild.
When I feel the sacrilege,
I scream at the heavens;
“Mother is the name of god to every child !”

And, she's in the Autumn leaves with her smile of spiders.

Father is a wolf at the foot of the stairway:
a portrait hung in web every time mother speaks.
It contradicts all
I thought was worth saving.
Now, vertigo, blood, and the stench are making me weak.

I can still hear her speak,
but she wont get warm.