The Looking Glass - A Collection of Poetry

Onwards and Upwards

A/N: I believe that I am losing my touch. Am I? This seemed right when I was writing it and it now seems so unsatisfactory. It doesn't help that nobody I know (in real-life) likes poetry - I only have you guys to tell me the truth. Please do.

I pack.

Or try to anyway.

I am sitting in a field of paper.

Of paper and boxes.

I blink.

Trying to take it all in.

Close my eyes,

Deep breath.

Reach for the nearest pile.

A card.

Faces peeping out of every window.

Uniform and smiling.

Brushed hair and just a hint of teeth.

Dimples adorning blood-brushed cheeks.

A wistful sigh before it is placed in a box.

Next: a case.

Once unlocked, creativity streams out.

An artistic assortment.

Colourful bits of paper, foil, felt.

Ribbons, buttons, pipe cleaners.

And I am a child.

It is here that I start.

I was a child.

I am no longer.

My hand hesitates.

Hovering over the keep and dump pile.

Do I grow up

And embrace the age-old ink and paper?

Or do I stay a child

And colour my world with delight?

A shuddering breath and my hand lets drop.

My heart cries.