All Dead. All of it.
Nothing left. None of it.
Having NONE of it.
We didn’t know…
No way to communicate in Polar Worlds One above ground; one below.
Counting seeds, Cursing the man who “loved” us so much For possessing us, dividing us, when we just wanted to possess ourselves.
Cursing the “gods” for this crazy bargain, for FATING on FATE Mad for allowing them to, because we didn’t have the power to choose
Or so we thought And accepted as much
Mother and Daughter divided. The Harvest : The Darkness. The 6 months.
Here it comes — again
And we relive the painful choices we never really had any choice in.
© Gia Portfolio, 2020