Mother of Nothing
They told the story of creation with the Father crowned in gold,
But never wrote of the Mother—her warmth,
her tales left untold.No goddess at the altar, no matriarch in stained glass,
Just silence in the spaces where her shadow fails to
pass.Creation’s bones rattled in a cathedral stripped of song,
Where absence became doctrine,
and everything felt wrong.Heaven rang with the voices of men,
But her touch was gone from tongue and pen.
They burned the incense, broke the bread,Sacrificed affection for the rules they’d instead.Altar reeked of smoke and cinder,Where nurturing vanished, love turned to splinters.Was
she dust? Was she myth?Did she her what the priests said beneath their breath?Her
stories erased, her face scrubbed from hymn—The only memory left was a shadow,
thin.
Creation groans for a touch it never knew,
A comfort lost before it could break through.The Mother of nothing,
the ghost in the void,
Waiting for the cradle that fate destroyed.The child calls to her absence,
stares into space,
Mouth full of prayers, but no hand to embrace.Stars made by her labor,
now cold and alone,
Every atom an orphan, every galaxy a bone.
They call her myth, they call her lie,
But her absence roars louder than every sky.Mother of nothing,
she still remains,
In longing, in loss, in forgotten names.Her children wait with broken hearts,
Haunted by what was lost at the start.If God is a father,
then where is she—The ghost at the crib, the hush in the tree?
Mother of ash, mother of bone,Created the stars, then left them alone.Still,
the cradle rocks in the chill of fate—And
every prayer falls to silence as they wait.