Poetry

I have seen shadows move

With the sun,

Their reflections at the back

Of the mirror.

On the wall

So dull they have become

Brighter than the being.

Tip top with the moon

Into my dreams to haunt me.

A reminder of what

I did not become,

My life a shadow still.

My mother does not go away. It is a taboo to my three grandmothers.

But when irresponsibility and her stepson have come with my father

I disagree with them, it is not right.

But we never agreeing it might be a punishment for meeting the villain.

Triumph Magazine