Neither to nor fro, stagnant in her wide back pose.

Glaring at her subjects as they flitter.

That is mine!

No, it’s mine!

Stop yas yapping and git to what yas was made to do. 

All I do’s is everything.

Never any peace nor mind. 

Is this to be the rest of me?

Never anything that sets me blooming.

Blooming.

A blooming vicarious and contrite indignation is that leaves a vice grip of tangled webs to strangle the very breath from me as still it gives me life.

Even as my generations that never seem to dwell on the fact that death reaches for me slowly.

As I breathe my strongest breath, death is in the smallest of dew drop.

But it’s my fate.

So prestigious a throne but, still I’m cut to the bare bones of existence.

Chortling even if I did, would not matter because a frown knows not how to laugh unless you give it direction.

And mine wouldn’t matter the same.

My existence epitomizes that so a new day bloometh, so it dies.

Never giving bravery even half a chance before it runs out leaving us with the baggage of fear.

We are many but one.

Though they will never pull one over on old Aunt Hill.

Sturdy house mother am I.

My nieces and nephews.

At least that’s what they call themselves.

.......Yeah, I call them that too.

But such brave souls.

No mothers nor fathers.

But still they go on.

If a chortle was to ever leave my lips it would be their fault.

Small in stature but brave in numbers.

That’s all that matters.

Nothing else.