She has the wind in her grasp
instead of her child's.
She has the invisibility of love wrapped up in a pink blanket
instead of her own flesh.
I wonder why,
don't you?
Aren't generations supposed to love and perceive
instead of denying
poking wounds
and sheltering the hurting?
I thought so too
seems that we are all out of a factory;
some manufactured perfectly
others defeated and destroyed completely
some mental
yet some broken...
Maybe I am the broken one
because I was there when my eyes grazed over the plain wind in her arms.
YOU ARE READING
Mellifluous Murmurs
Poesía❁ Freedom is allowing the crisp air to guide you through this forest we can call society. ❁
