In the Lines of Her Thumbs

Mavourneen, matri, tears burn, from her maudlin concern, a woman scorn, for she mourns, her maven 1st born, for in a mausoleum his soul burns, her skin complexion is of an odd mauve, swagger suave, an angel coughed, for God cut his air off, for thy creator touched his soul beyond soft, 25 years of life paid for what his soul cost, picture hell covered in a silver frost, engulfed, in phlegm from that angel’s cough, loss -n- a spiritual sauce, deaths secret broth, covered with a colorful well stitched cloth, a simulacrum, acupuncture to an acronym, while an accordion played the drum, while mavourneen, matri, snivels, asking God how come. Her heart’s beating from pain like a burning snare drum, her thoughts totally submerged in red rum, thy poor matri, sniveling asking God how come, her answer is written within the lines of her thumbs.

For some reason she

Never read her pollex