in memory of my childhood

a series of poems about hope, family death and life in it general hopful and grimness

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2. echo house

I see you cry on the rock hard chair.

Sure how were you suppose to know that the

painted field had cracks.

Is it your thoughts or worries that astound me.

I knew,I was broken long before you stood on me.

 

Is it the twitch in you finger? The itch in your  hair?

That is the true worry.

You whisper it's my fragility, beauty of such.

As if I was the glass plate.One touch and I break.

But really I'm the violent wasp.

One touch.You ache.

 

This echo scare, your fear replace though and I buzz in your ear and you don't care.

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