by Motavenda Melchizedek
Dedication: I dedicate this piece to all the men who were boys that lived at the mercy of an unhealed woman/mother. I remember the desperation this young man felt at the sight of his own impotence forced upon him by a mother unwilling to allow him to grow into a man. He was vital and viral and beautiful and alive but that was not to be. He was forbidden, through a twisted sense of obligation, to become free.
...
Asylum
She came to the village
in search of the soul
of her lost son
He was lost
to only one
and that was she
A mother possessed
of the most hideous of desires
to conquer the heart
of her child
to fulfill the hopeless lover
buried deep inside her
He ran with great speed
in his attempt to be free
from her dirty grip
which held him tight
tearing his flesh
unconcerned
Always he laughed
and pretended
without disguise
that he was free
When he wasn’t
And this left her
with great hope
that in the end
she would devour
his beating heart
with her rotting teeth
and foulest breath
He loved her
he told me
and in the fore
of his obligations
lay this apparent allegiance
to his greatest enemy
the mother
The one
to set the stage
for all experience
And all experience
had led him here
to the palm of her pudgy hand
lusting so vulgarly
for the soul and cock
of her own son
the favorite one
Her eyes were among the ugliest I have ever seen
“Look at me”, she demanded
“Look into my eyes”
She said to the others aloud,
“I want her to look in my eyes,
I think she is good
and I like her.”
And she made me look
for as long as I could stand
into the muddy filters of her hateful core
to prove the test was mine
And her goodness never in question
And how sickened am I
to know
a child once lay in her arms
with no choice
but to stay
and be what she needed
when it left him lost
and running forever
into eternity
with a mouthful of lies
and nowhere to speak
and her thrusting tongue
searching with relentless
and vulgar passion
down the back of his gagging
throat
His eyes had darkened in the days of her presence
as he spoke to me in whispers
of the planned escape
And in my heart and in my mind
I wished for him a safe journey
for the chance to make it
through the narrow narrow door
to asylum from the grip of his own mother
gone mad
in search of the soul
of her lost child
Postscript: In the years since I wrote this piece, decades now, I have met many many men who were born into the bondage of the legacy of the injured, unhealed woman. Though there is no doubt fathers can wound daughters in horrific ways, mothers can injure sons on levels incomprehensible and in ways so vicious they are not even spoken of in our culture. These wounds go deep. Too deep for men to travel to in any natural way to even begin to understand what has taken place. To even know what has happened to them. I have seen their predicaments, I have love these men, and I have also experienced their rage and terror at the sight of feminine energy. In their unhealed state, it is as though the female of any strength must be destroyed, undermined and destabilized. These men feel compelled to annihilate women. I can only wonder if they can not tell the difference between beautiful power and the dark face of the destroyer female. It is all so heartbreaking.