Monday, September 3, 2012


Silly imitations,
Words spelt as they sound-
Childish babbling-
Whispers of confidence,
Told with clutched hands.

Broken crayons and torn papers,
Danglers that spin around slowly
Over an empty crib; The light through
The window is horizontal and slim.

What you knew once are no more,
They are but another in the looking glass,
An impression like the lady on the moon,
Etched through fond tales by fonder aunts.

Memories are best served
In warm blankets and pillows,
With a silence creeping in,
Loneliness, a fetching.

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