where is my silver spoon
I keep running running from my heart
hoping to catch it
Im a pool of twighlight
fashioned at dawn
a wax sculpture melting in the snow
in the morning my arms
will be all twisted
my face contorted
like a silver tree
that you have forced
into a mould
holding me down your hands
wringling my shoulders
your thumbs making dents
in my clay
© Lizarikk, All Rights Reserved
you know and
now he's rolled me
back into a ball
and apparently is going
to make something else ...
yikes .. .
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