poetry writing

Photocopied trees circle me,
And I feel as though I am being painted,
As though a far away brush has brought us all into existence--

Then a child runs too carelessly,
falls on their face,
And the painting is slightly torn.

a thief entered in daylight, breathing air-tight, with vexatious appetite, left the house frozen, but patronisingly rosen, each petal coerced me to an empty room i, a cartographer shrouded in gloom,

found nothing

my youth

had gone.