children's rooms smell of
common sickness and crayon wax
(memories, they flow from
repressed pastel-lace dreams)
a girlhood, erased
old love exposed for its truth, timeless delusion
thus the ice cracks; filled in hasty attempt
(thawed- from fire not of passion, or intimacy,
rather a void rage- destruction incarnate)
decisive
his scalpel engraved; "to father"
carved the icicle crown
(no tiara, but queen to king)
old eyes that laid the snowy blankets
in the cold, children grow,
but they grow up sick.
YOU ARE READING
NEW HEARTS & COLD SEAS
Poetrywhen they seek you out because they know they can, because they know they can get away with it - anonymity is your friend.
