Monday, March 27, 2017

Living Art


The painting that I once had in my living room,
Was now broken into the tiniest colorful pieces
By the woman on the wheelchair who called herself
My ‘stepmother.’

The walls are like a sea,
Colorless and full of pale faces.

I wanted to visit my house again,
To be able to look at my broken painting.
The gift that was given by my father.

I wanted to re-live those thrilled moments,
Where all I saw was happy faces.
I wanted to be written in the book of memories,
Like every day was meaningful
Until I remembered the same painting.

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