too small to see

Nobody move
the silver tongue
rocks the cradle.

Curled in the corner
lies a child
no one loves
everyone fears.
A poor soul taunted
internal screams wanting.

Bleeding by virtue
the shattered glass
pooling verity
breathes her last.
Invisible haunting
cleaves to talking.

Blank stares
shining by dint
of the high moon.

It is a coincidence this poem is posting on Day Fourteen and fits in with the writing prompt atĀ Ā  Either way, it works for both.Ā  Happy writing, Jeanne






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