He sees her life. He sees what she's made and what she's said, he sees how she lives, what she does, he feels her feelings and lives vicariously through her, and yet there is an emptiness. There is an emptiness within the shell of one who has never been full. There is jealousy, there is anger, there is injustice and sadness and regret at what could have been and what should have been, there is fury at a god that would have made one so cruel have such power over one so weak who wished so much to live. These volcanic feelings erupt, yet they evaporate and erase into the colors above, and there is nothing left but an emptiness. The child wishes to speak to his mother, he wishes to open a mouth never opened and utter words with vocal cords never vibrated and it is a want that bring a potency into this world of dust, one that breaks the melancholy of the masses and brings their attention to her, this woman, this creature who LIVES, and the the potency wishes so badly to speak and yet
what is there to say?
What could there possibly be to say from an infant who was killed by their mother?
So the potency leaves, and a stillness returns, and the colors grey, the sand wets into a mud and the children sink and they were never there.