Snow White
And it comes
To this point
And I ask
What am I
And I stare
In the mirror
And though
It's not broken
Or even shattered
There are cracks
And amongst the
Tiny broken
Webs of glass
I see
Different parts of
Me
Staring back
Sometimes confused
Sometimes amazed
Mainly bewildered
And in the shadows
In the very
Corners
The wood becomes
A forest
Twisting its roots
Through
The essence
Of my life
And half eaten
Apples
Lay rotting
In their possible
Poison
And I wonder
Whether it's a
Fairytale
Or a jungle
And whether
I can hear
Drums beating
Or it's just
My heart
Waiting
To explode
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Wed 12th Nov 2014 20:45
Very effective indeed. He twists his ideas and words like skeins of wool off a loom, always with substance, tough and soft at the same time.