Daughters of Man: A Mother’s 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