the sound of childhood
Drops
slowly
drip
from your bedroom ceiling
making
rivers filled with salty tears.
A newspaper vessel floats
Among broken blocks,
forgotten doll heads and arms,
long black arms
that reach for your
feet.
I was waiting for a familiar face to
greet me.
My feet,
dangling off the
edge.
The whispers below the sheets,
unbothered by artificial
light
continue their malicious business.
13