Where the sunshine meets the sea,
or in the flicker of a flame,
and the curled finger when I sleep,
wrapped around the stark fabric of bedsheet,
crackling my knuckles, so tense,
the landlord bangs on the door
bell rings with
his raging thuds
shatter and clatter
the sugar glass I store
the world in away
from my mind
WHEN that day comes,
all the mothers will sing
a little lullaby,
and sweep away my sins
with their dusty little wings.
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Filed under: poetry
Scrawls on the walls: