His head a balloon
His arms made of timber
The redness in his cheeks
Was born to spill
All over this dull wooden floor
I stare closer.
And see his features
Unravelling
They twist
And turn
In ways
that even Picasso
Could not picture
Hesitantly
I inch forward
Until I feel
his glassy touch
So that he may watch
Me go home forever
Silence feels safe but builds quiet distance
Kids need predictable love, not perfect parents.
Protect your family’s calm during the holiday chaos
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