Mother Earth for Digital

Love has no fathom
or limits,
nothing would help betray
the love of eggs
wrapped by Giants
and pounded with stone of age.
There is no cure
nor bite for fish,
cotton soaks venom in tails
of sunshine,
hail memory to ginseng bone.

Flat roofs smash embryos
into adulthood,
concrete seed for wild ages,
blooming in the turret sand
where plastic soldiers dare taunt
the wolf and kneel it to its cushion.
Mother arms hold dear blood
close to spiked bark
as cloven leaves fall to order.
Cane devils, candy lambs
a feast of olives to babes.

Daggers sail onto upright palms
waiting for relief from horror,
but wayward saints have no cunning
in wrath of wounds
and comfort is beyond fire.
No mother strips for bombs
or lure lust on heels,
but if torch happened on skin
the ghost would fan the chain
and tears soil cribs.

Moon flail teeth
until devils no longer have passport
between the dials,
there are no roots in stockinged sheaths.
Hang heads like vagabonds
to those kissing herons,
a raised leg for audience.
Love mother
mother I love for eagles,
no skull carved of emblems.
All country folds for cobras...

@Steven Francis poems 2009