A heart once pliable and soft
with the bloom of youth still
wafting sweetness into an open mind
now hard as flint, in self absorbed,
avoiding mirrors except to smash them
and revel in the shards
crushed sharply under the
boot of control
the picture in the attic
wears a knowing smirk
deaf to any echo but its own
neck deep in its own
enveloping paper white sea
Thanks, readers!
The Poetry Patio 