Poetry: Deprived


Tiny, red skeletal hands

Stretch out for safety,

Thrash in the milky sea,

Elongate for the security

Of my swarthy hued pupil.

They combine and become

A misty army of miniature little claws,

Punishing me for the glassy gaze

I gave to my computer screen

When I should have been sleeping.

Clouded and content with their mischief,

I see them start their slow retreat,

Crimson becoming rosy

And hands shrinking to shoulders.

Alas, I never learn and they will return.

– Molly Johnston



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