Mother Maya

She gave more and more toys to her cry-child, Not a look and she wailed ever more still, Restless, disconsolate, wanton, and wild, But, as mothers do, she knew what was ill. So doth Maya— the Mother amorphous, She piles in people's paths pageants of toys Hoping that we be wise and virtuous, That, we ferret out jeers faking as joys; Her love, illusion-clad, is what we see, As light transcends darkness, and truth entwined In clouds of ignorance, water of sea Hidden hind waves; we see life's glues that bind; Only when tallest of ceilings you tame, You know: ceilings and roofs are all the same. ____________________________________________ Sonnets | 07.01.12 | Topic: Maya, mother, child