Morning,
you turn away
mindlessly preaching to
us both, that all good things must be
a sin
Santa Claus
Small lies
for our own good,
the base of all our trust
up until our parents tell us
the truth
Balloon
So frail,
deflated and
limp, held together by
red latex and helium, pride
wounded.
Picnic
In the
road you meet it.
The bite of three choices,
sharp to stab, not silver, but
plastic.
