Breasts and the phenomena of infertility

All my life I have never wanted children
I have longed for companions but never children
To take care of or to take care of me
When I am at my most infirm in old age
I have always had a travelling heart
And that has been with me season after season
Of all the dark, mocking falling leaves.

There is stagnation between the laughter of clowns
That marks all of us. In the details of their heavy made-up
Faces. The wigs that hides their true features from all of us.
There is a sadness and a pathetic frustration
That lies there like the trees at the bottom of a lake.
Drowning visitors every one never to be seen
By humanity again. Touched by the hands of humanity
Again. And so we say that our fears have lethal airs
And graces. We begin to search for the exit out.
Our moral compass navigates us through the elements
Of air and fire. And whenever our hearts are pure again

We the lovers of futility and imposters
In our dreams. We will become voyagers once again
Our minds and hearts turned into ice, asylum pieces
Every one. The frame psychological. The work
The world and the fabric of the universe darker still
Than our childhood. A child’s world touched by
Swaziland’s mountains, valleys, Lazarus and greener
Pastures, sleep and the richness of a father’s madness.
Humanity goes forward into the exploratory studies
Of both man and woman to find souls there
Some find that they are touched by love

Others find mental sickness, and aberrations
Illness composed of jagged pharmaceuticals, doctors
And pharmacists, a bright palace of harmonious
Music, lords and ladies of the stellar night
Dancing their cold hearts and lungs out as fast
As their legs and feet can carry them. They don’t
Need a world of inquiries. They’re all strangers
In the dead of night and they’re all singing the blues.
Stringing, threading, braiding love knots, Scout
Knots, clotting blood knots feeling the tightness
In their chests while the rest of us live and die.

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