Prison To Treason

Behind bars,
Longing for free life
I gave birth to my daughter, my world;
Blotting out the fear of dying in dark
Without a child;
Who, I thought, would free me
From these rusty tended bars of terror,
The bars I preferred to being “free”
Like my daughter,
Who scorns my green fingers
That she’s of script and pen;
That I’m behind the times and her of dot-com.
But she’s slanting to the pit!
My girl’s disrobed her only mother
Giving herself away, here and there, in marriage,
Not once but, even in a harlot’s cloth,
Jumping from one to another,
Laughing at mine (of cushy hearts) as outmoded;
That she rather, than to be in constraint,
Be treasonous and die of my curse,
And she’s perishing