What is a son but an 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 && she is the conductor, baton swaying, begetting crescendos with the fierce edge of a knife sinking into flesh.
Her elder son—such is the burdens of collapsed glory. Faith would not be enough. He is 𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 for her boons.
A lady not well-versed in enigmas—is 𝒏𝒐 woman. 𝑴𝑬𝑵 𝑮𝑶 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑳𝑬 && women fight wars in the pall; coffin for lovers carved from valiant treachery.
There is bravery in threading the rope for those pitiful && small / little to contribute to 𝒉𝒆𝒓 cause.
She does not want for honor.
Her belly has long been 𝒗͟𝒊͟𝒐͟𝒍͟𝒂͟𝒕͟𝒆͟𝒅͟ by man; rapture found in the wreckage of divinity. There is a plague spilling among soil, waltzing with glory—it is her son, wearing the crown of hero.
He should have 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 starvation.