Writers Are Parents
Fine threads of black, knotted into masks.
A diamond minute, suspended between black hands.
A golden apple, shining in the sun.
Twin moons, yellow in the sky.
Stoic lines in the eyes, anger in the hand.
It tickles the windowpanes with painted nails.
December bows to January.
I see prisms, shooting out stars.
Eyes spotted on the leaves, blinking on butterfly wings.
Branches buried in gloom, peering at a pearl in the muck.
Running, running, with shadows behind me and glass bobbles ahead.
I am the wind making ripples across the water.
Those endless bones, frozen mid-swim.
Hidden waves in the desert sand, rippling like rainbows.
That speck of a rainbow, when rain responds to sunshine.
Nin Chronicles is bridging the gaps between religion, race, gender, parents and their children with words of hope and love.
Join the journey to grow.
© 2019 Jaya Avendel
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