milk hair, milk clothes
a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream
the whirr of a printing press on blank paper
The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears.

A mirror bought to
of echoing frailty,
a chord at its highest piercing note.

The crescendo before dusk.

A
pair of hands encased in its own
Who                                                          ­  
polite and light on the tongue,
                                                         ­                   a vain blind
                                                                ­           no less
Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch.
It prays.
                                         Soundless noise.
                                                          ­      not a pin-drop
                                                                ­       not the screeches of bosses

And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine.
It screams.
The mirror.                                      

Cell             blown to bits
Custody               broken

Mirror tattered
refunded at a bitter price.    

Blank as snow and crisp as winter.
Gone like snow the very next morning.
But ever so physically there.

In my hand I hold a book,
memories clashing, thrashing, collapsing at every verse.
To where I meet my fellow adventurer, traveler, merchant.
Oh are you friend or foe?
I ask at every letter, word, line, paragraph, page, chapter...
Scour every verse ever written, details of the past.
Yet they'll often end the same.

A frame to a world,
etched by fledglings of paper and ink.
Imperfections that shatter, clatter, splatter
every notice of human touch, hunch, crunch
But bunched together, sewn together
to reform and perform such a broken, silly tale.

Kindling hearths
as bluebirds fly.