Flowers in our Hands

Flowers in our Hands

Sitting among the ashes

Of what was

Fooling ourselves 

To believe it is all still here 

Imagining the walls                           

And listening to them talk

Seeing their stories 

And trying to live them again

We are blind to what is growing 

Before our eyes 

Too focused on 

Charred flowers in our hands

We see the blossoms 

As they were

And desperately ignore 

What they haven't become 

Why do we waste 

Our time 

On fools dreams 

And fools eyes 

Why don't we stop 

Stop tricking ourselves 

Into being blind to 

What we know 

If we keep remembering 

Keep wanting 

We will foolishly 

Waste our powers 

~Lauren~

The Puppet

The Puppet

With placid, painted smile and dull,
opaque eyes, the puppet watches
the lost child play.
Cavorting about the fire
The familiar roller-coaster playing
In his scattered mind.
He jumps, grasps at thin, silvery
Wisps of smoke floating past
Taunting his hand.
Ferocious, the little boy tries
To trap the whispers, all the while
Crushing them in a
White-knuckled grip.

The fire dims and the ghosts drift on,
A broken boy falls to the ground,
Utter bewilderment flickering
Across his face.
A moment of surrender and abandon
Turns vulnerability into impenetrable
Walls, begging to be conquered.
Cautiously, the puppet stares on,
Willing the boy's mouth to open
And speak.
Suddenly, the boy reaches up
Snatching the figurine as a
Worthless trinket.
He opens its mouth and expects
What he wants to hear
But the pawn fails,
Having been pulled and twisted
Into silence.

Indignant and ignorant to his own
Muted mouth, he tosses the doll aside.
Standing, the boy who is forgetting
Wanders off in pursuit of insanity.
The lost child's plaything remains,
A silent, desperate cry escaping
It's placid, painted smile
A reflection of the decimated boy lingering
In it's dull, opaque eyes.


~Lauren~