“Springs first heartbeat honors winters last breath”- Angie Weiland-Crosby
April became the funeral father’s song. The Spring of a taste’s mouth full of the shining sun.
We recall the smell of incense and intense flowers mixed with dirt and deep in the gut;
The wish you would disappear at once eaten by the hunger of maggots and bugs
like a fast-food burger or other junk. I hate the flavour of oily paper, and it reminds me of you!
I wish the makers of your hug; each of your memory of your slumber keeps dying on the mud!
But lately, while Spring opens its eye, mum told me you were the same after being diagnosed
and prescribed a whole feast of meds. So you cunt, besides the debts and the paperwork you left
your legacy was to stain my gene with your stupid untreated shade. If you weren’t coward garbage
if you had accepted that it was okay to not be okay. Maybe you would have a different daughter.
You might have died in the middle of Spring, but your carcass remains rotten in the darkest place
I can offer. Stay there and don’t come back! I will make my own song of Spring now with some faith,
my own nest with no mention of your name. So heed, stay away!
Her name is Lara. She was born in 1984 and since childhood, this nomad has written about the worlds built up in her head. However, when she is too lazy to express herself in with words, she uses her simple drawing skill.