fragility

hospitals smell of fragility
how life is filtered
through corridors
cracks in the shutters
spy on fading light
orange yolk s
p
i
ll
i
n
g
on the tiles
no one cleans it up.
but shadows come
and steal them away,
and more than that
in these wards
where
everything
is
t e e te r i n g
on daybreak.

pillow on which
rests a wrinkled hand
like a flower
whose petals
close
in the night.

{to be edited}

kittens on the carpet

Little Sylvie had a cat
Which used to sit upon a mat
Its coat was black, with flecks of grey
A warning, to its timid prey

And as the auburn sky turned white
She's rest against the window pane,
While stroking him with quiet delight
Sip some milk and watch the rain.

One day Mittens, which was its name
Couldn't be found, how, whence it became
a truly common sight to see
Little Sylvie running frantically
In search of her long lost child
(Which, by now, must have grown quite wild.)

As Little Sylvie sobbed to sleep
Her mother said to count the sheep
And as she fell into quilted arms
Quite quickly she embraced their charm.

The morning came, and disappeared
So by and by, they whispered
no more of days without Mittens
With whom Sylvie had been quite smitten.

One day she had to relocate
It seemed, no need to catch up with fate
But golly, what did she see
Amongst the polished mahogany?

Leaping onto fresh new tiles,
across the new furniture,
across the new sofa...
It very well couldn't be...
It couldn't be! It couldn't be!

Little Sylvie was quite aghast.
She toppled headfirst into the dust
And landed, quite abruptly
Onto astonishing familiarity.

Its coat was black
Now stitched and slack
And when she finally stroked
Oh how her heart broke.

Comments: THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I NEED LOTS OF PRACTICE AND INSPIRATION HAHAHAH my rhyming is as bad as portugese cheese talking like reese...low.

Incomplete every day

days become dry
sick to the scalp and
flaking off every
timeless. pallid skin