Move Along
Moonlight lifted the curtains of night with its white radiance.
Stars brightened the black stage.
A girl with her arm propped up on one hand watched the show.
She watched the crickets argue,
the sound of their voice sliced through the silent night.
A cool breeze blew in through the window.
It splashed mist on her face.
She wiped her eyes and the show paused
until she returned to them her attention.
A creak.
She turned her head toward the door.
The door that she closed stood completely open.
Bang.
Her body draped motionless over the windowsill.
The performance paused at the disappearance of its audience
only to pick up without a care.
Mirror Mirror
The cracked mirror reflected a girl.
Her black eyes dark and dull like a piece of coal.
A pair of hands grabbed and shoulders and pushed her down.
She hit the floor with a thud.
I scampered up to see the girl again.
Tiny scratches covered her face.
A trail of blood escaped a gash on her forehead.
My vision became cloudy
so I reached up and wipe my eyes clean.
I could see the girl clearly again.
Bits of blood smeared her eyes and cheeks.
The pair of hands returned and whipped her around.
I can no longer see her.
Instead, my eyes met with my stepmother,
her dark lips in a snarl.
Her right hand struck me across my cheek.
She threw a mop at me and pushed me out the door.
I limped over toward the water bucket.
I can see the girl in the water staring back at me.
She smiled and wiped her face clean.
“Just another day,” she seemed to say.
“Just another day,” I agreed.
Fit For a King
An old rag lay lifeless on the cement floor.
The once exuberant gold velvet faded
to ashen gray.
A cloth that once adorned a king
sat in the far corner of the kitchen by a roaring furnace.
The rag kept to itself most of the time.
Once in a blue moon a servant would pick up the rag
to scrub away the grime on the ground.
When finished with his duty
the servant dropped the rag in its place once more.
Day after day the rag lay there.
It remained silent and reminisces the old days,
the good times, times in the sun.
In this dark corner, the only light comes from the old furnace,
a fake light.
Another hand reached out and grabbed the rag.
The rag sighed and prepared to meet the dirty floor
but the contact never came.
Surprised, the rag peered at its surrounding.
Golden light streamed from above.
The rag had to squint at the sudden brightness.
At first it blinked, not knowing what to do,
and then it grinned.
The rag sat in the dumpster and grinned.
Moonlight lifted the curtains of night with its white radiance.
Stars brightened the black stage.
A girl with her arm propped up on one hand watched the show.
She watched the crickets argue,
the sound of their voice sliced through the silent night.
A cool breeze blew in through the window.
It splashed mist on her face.
She wiped her eyes and the show paused
until she returned to them her attention.
A creak.
She turned her head toward the door.
The door that she closed stood completely open.
Bang.
Her body draped motionless over the windowsill.
The performance paused at the disappearance of its audience
only to pick up without a care.
Mirror Mirror
The cracked mirror reflected a girl.
Her black eyes dark and dull like a piece of coal.
A pair of hands grabbed and shoulders and pushed her down.
She hit the floor with a thud.
I scampered up to see the girl again.
Tiny scratches covered her face.
A trail of blood escaped a gash on her forehead.
My vision became cloudy
so I reached up and wipe my eyes clean.
I could see the girl clearly again.
Bits of blood smeared her eyes and cheeks.
The pair of hands returned and whipped her around.
I can no longer see her.
Instead, my eyes met with my stepmother,
her dark lips in a snarl.
Her right hand struck me across my cheek.
She threw a mop at me and pushed me out the door.
I limped over toward the water bucket.
I can see the girl in the water staring back at me.
She smiled and wiped her face clean.
“Just another day,” she seemed to say.
“Just another day,” I agreed.
Fit For a King
An old rag lay lifeless on the cement floor.
The once exuberant gold velvet faded
to ashen gray.
A cloth that once adorned a king
sat in the far corner of the kitchen by a roaring furnace.
The rag kept to itself most of the time.
Once in a blue moon a servant would pick up the rag
to scrub away the grime on the ground.
When finished with his duty
the servant dropped the rag in its place once more.
Day after day the rag lay there.
It remained silent and reminisces the old days,
the good times, times in the sun.
In this dark corner, the only light comes from the old furnace,
a fake light.
Another hand reached out and grabbed the rag.
The rag sighed and prepared to meet the dirty floor
but the contact never came.
Surprised, the rag peered at its surrounding.
Golden light streamed from above.
The rag had to squint at the sudden brightness.
At first it blinked, not knowing what to do,
and then it grinned.
The rag sat in the dumpster and grinned.
