On that cold, December day,
We were pigtails
braided with silky ribbon.
We were stories read by Mother
hopeful words stitched in our hearts.
We were gingerbread men
icing in our eyes.
We were cups of hot chocolate
delightful burns laced in the sips.
The whipped cream melted in our scalding hot cocoa.
We are flat tires
in the pouring rain.
We are failed papers
in failed worlds.
We are the bags under our eyes.
We are the forced smiles sewed to our faces.
On this cold, December day, we are frozen hearts and burnt brains.
YOU ARE READING
From My Mind to Yours (2016)
Poetry"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty". (Edgar Allen Poe)
