Two

Mother says to son, who has a grenade in his gut:
"Child, on the morrow I will cradle your marrow.
I will laden it with careful compassion;
neither a sad faction of maudlin mourning
nor a diagram of indifferent retraction from
the Great System that will spread you over the plains.
We have 'til morning-- we have 'til mourning begins.
An evening of weeping and scorning of overt emotion,
of remembrance and nostalgic entrance to meaningless memory and the corrosive motion of time.
Apprehension, and our pension is bestowed grief,
waiting to mourn-- waiting until the morning of the day that you explode.
Your marrow and horror will harrow us tomorrow,
as the black-brittle pin begins to slip
from the death-spittle sheathe within you,
a diagram of destiny's phlegm-- spit and repeat; release so grim.
And while your diagram still pushes for breath,
I will push you to my breast, which will bear the breadth
of the pain; the gory rain;
the reign of glory of the hate and acrimony of fate,
on the morrow, when I embrace your marrow,
steaming-hot and scalding my skin, enacting my sin."
Says mother to son, cries with tears hung
like criminals and convicts on her face,
as she ties him to crucifix, and escapes.
We are a people of mortality, not morality,
and die expertly and the whims of a power impassioned by our suffering.

This poem, once again narrated by the Lacerated Orator, details the role of the mechanical mutations in the lives and existences of the Miscreant people. A child has been born and created with a grenade in his stomach, and it will explode the morning after the poem takes place. The mother of the boy struggles to find a balance of self-control and emotive expression of grief as she speaks one last time with the boy. However, she is overtaken with cynicism, and continues to darkly describe to her son how he will die in the morning, and how she will mourn. Finally, she departs, after tying him to a crucifix of sorts, so that his explosion will do no more harm than is necessary. I think this poem really needs work. It doesn't flow well, has no rhythm, repeats a couple of important words (which I hate to do, in most situations), and fails to get the message and scope of the original idea across to the reader; it fails to execute as well as I want it to. This one will definitely be redone.