Our Mother
a.d. iii Id. Mai. MCCLV

Human minds are glittering constructs
Gilded over and over in little, hair-thin
Connections, superfluous and egotistic
An intricate latticework of consciousness
But under all the overwrought
Is dark morsels of truth, festering
Or frozen

And in the real world,
Spring is a growing child
With a fat and endearing face
Dandelions splay like starfruit
And the musky air is
Superfecund with life

It is not our mother

Kind of pretentious, but oh fucking well.