Play Date Poem by Banksoya Sauce

Dying carnations, failing to nourish,
Yet awaiting the young Amy to flourish;
Soft skin, on her face a red blemish,
Yet it's still not time to replenish.

The fruits of her womb across the sea,
Soft cries not of those on her knee.
Young Amy sits there, giggling away
At the false sincerity of only the maid.

Playful caresses here and there
Would here not have led:
She has not the dignity to rebel
As the mouth at home is still not fed.

On her heart grows the mould:
"You're no child of mine" she said,
Stepping over stones of gold;
All her affections, priority-led.

Awakened the carnations, spring has come:
All along, the war was finally won.
Fruits of her womb lost at sea,
The maid has not the time to weep.

Yet Young Amy on her knee remains,
Until time decides not to leave a grain
Of the breast milk, she was used for, left:
All her miseries, destiny-led.