Lulu

A mother's lament.

There's friction at the fault - whose fault?
Not hers! She swears it's not her fault!
Yet blazing beasts - wild boar with boiling
blood and fi'ry fury roiling -
rampage in a rumbling bate,
and tempest I anticipate.

There's magma moving through her veins-
or is it lava? all the same-
where pressure builds, a ticking bomb;
no snack or toy restores aplomb.
She's stuck! Her static pressure spikes
as one plate 'gainst another strikes.

There's focus (where the rock first splits),
'midst quaking limbs and trembling fits,
when bawling, bellowing I hear,
my calm and measured point is clear:
Set orders and demands aside,
for tantrums, I cannot abide.


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