“In the taxicab of
life, she drove with
no destination
of her own.”
My thoughts began
with a word:
‘vehicle’ which lead
to a map of abuse.
Isn’t it curious how?
writing
a poem can force
bruised emotions
to surface, like
purple crocuses in snow
bracing against harsh
wind.
While early blossoms
are predestined to endure
exposure, children
are not. I didn’t
like the poem and
threw it in the gutter
where all dark intentions
and dead flowers belong.