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.

Atoms scattered upon water, grass and ground.
Mother gathered the collection of atoms. Then ate them, drank them and inhaled them.

Specks of light interwoven to create my source code.
From warmth into the dark, my dream was cut too short.
It was cut much too short.

Where was her ******* to cry milk for me?
Where was her arms to embrace me?
I was supposed to have a long dream,
but it was cut too short!

You grabbed a hatchet to cut my dream,
Snuffed it out like a candle in the cold winter breeze.
I needed someone to guide me through my dream.
I needed you to guide me through my dream.
Through my dream, I would have found awake.
Now I sleep, never to awake.