My mother went to the grave with a Three-
Dee printed rose upon her chest so still.
I had created the file in Blender
A few weeks prior to her final parting.
Perfect square poligons like the precise
Modernity of our screwed-up relationship.
She was a modern girl, free and unbound
By details of propriety and bullshit,
A 60's woman stuck in a medieval,
Fascist, oppressive, backwards country: Spain.
A beauty unrecognized by all, except
By her son here who's writing in despair,
For complete lack of words. Isn't it funny
How words don't cover up for our inadequacy?
Except I would, now that I see more clearly,
Flood her with endless chatter and caresses,
Scan her whole, turn her into an immortal
Model, creepy but sweet, proud and eternal.
I'm afraid even this would not suffice
To erase the deep glitch left behind by her,
So this matrix of craze will have to do
Until we join again in the recycled
Vortex of matter that resembles light.

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