by Willow Rose
This is the cruel dawn…
the dawn of wailing sirens, crow calls, locked doors.
Your door is locked,
a silent assault.
I tiptoe past,
careful not to break any eggshells.
There are so many now;
mama always said I was clumsy;
now everywhere I step I hear it,
I hear the cracking, breaking, crunching
of hollow shells.
The cruel dawn breaks too.
And I was just learning to crumble.
©Willow Rose 2012