Daughters of Man: A Mothers Omen

My earliest memory. In halls of whispered echoes, where shadows dance and play, A child in arms of sanctuary, where night meets gentle day. Innocence in purest form, a trust that does not sway, Cradled in the mother s hold, where silent fears allay. Bound in jacket s tight embrace, a tale Freud might convey, Desires hidden, suppressed deep, in twisted, quiet fray. Yet in her arms, a child s peace, in unspoken ballet, Teething on the leather grip, where mind s unrest does stay. On a screen, The Omen looms, in black and white display, Jungian shadows stir beneath, in a cryptic, eerie way. Good and evil s timeless dance, in subconscious relay, In this sanatorium, life s complex themes portray. In this cradle of contrasts stark, where innocence does lay, Human psyche s depth unfurls, in a poignant, surreal array. A scene of tender juxtaposition, in light and dark s essay, Where healing, fear, and love entwi