My Birth, My Death, My Mother

My mother birthed me from the hellfire of dormant volcanoes, carved me from cooling lava and chilled water as Zeus was thought to have created man from stone.

From the lightning and turmoil of an acid sea, 

a primordial soup made just for my consumption; 

She breathed in and breathed out and pushed and there I was.

Mankind, an un-flawless creation of ape flesh and she looked upon me with favor as she did her other children. 

But the sky darkens on me, 

on mankind, 

for with every chop chop of tree branch tree bark, 

every puff puff of smoke from my lungs, 

every careless kill, and every great grandchild born, she withers in pain and disdain for me. 

Her child. 

I bring her closer and closer to hell, 

literally six degrees of separation between myself and the smell of burning wood, burning flesh, burning sky, her skin caught fire, a match lit by the child she once favored.

My mother still reaches for me

Hesitates, a moment or two, but stretching her branches and clouds in an open palmed armistice. 

Hands of water lilies and tidal waves resting upon mine, gently, as if questioning herself, questioning me, as she grows ever-more impatient.

Fluidly warm, her grasp is the calm of a time long past and an inhale of fresh, clean, unpolluted atmosphere.

I reach to her and provide her promises so near broken, dreams fragmented by my fear and my hatred and my disappointment in mankind, 

her child, her conqueror, her undoing.

My mother. 

Her death hurts me. It kills you.  

With every day my Mother, 

Your Mother, 

moves backwards in time, reliving the before birth of red-hot lava and volcanoes and burning oceans. 

And with that devolution comes an end to humanity. 

And peace.