The smell of burning toast wafting through the house-
Gone.
The bread for the toaster that would have been turned into toast-
Gone.
The burning of the coffin and all that's within,
Reminds me of the breakfast she used to make me.
The pungent smell of burning bread,
Yet it was just her this time.
Breakfast not made anymore:
Not burnt to a crisp.
Yet I miss her breakfasts;
And everything else that she did.
Why did this have to happen?
Why do I have to cope with this?
Now there's just a toast just sitting there-
Starving.
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Poetry
PoetryPoetry by James Matthews includes all his best poems plus special previews of his new works
