pierced china cup

by Colly


personal photo















He was a showman of sorts.

His eyes darted wildly. Amusement smeared on his face.

He knew we would see. Witness, yet again, his thoughtless, crude act.

For him, life wasn’t the same without the circus. There had to be a circus.

And us, his circus animals for which bore the pain.

His bat swung hard, as usual, to hit its intended target.

And as always she’d jumped. Only to, then, exclaim his name in a heightened voice.

He had a way of breaking those of his kingdom without ever saying a word…

And his actions left scares even now I’m trying to come to terms with.

The china dish never broke that day. But the depth of his fingers seemed to go

deeper with each attempt.

Love for him was something that gathered on tiny window frames

only to brush away with the wind’s gust. Ice-crystals would array themselves

over translucent pane. Shimmering – the particles floated mid-air;

held captive – frozen still – by the chilly air.




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