New Poem: Through The Looking Glass

Through the Looking Glass

Here, inside

Is the scent of death.

My mother said

The roses had died,

The roses have given their final breath,

The roses have bled

And turned white.

I thought I heard

A sound there

That hushed my cries.

Was it the coo of a bird?

Or your silly laugh? Your foot on the stair?

Or the heavy sighs

That you might

Hear from a weary old house

Settling in its tired foundation?

Yet in the mirror I swear,

In your minnie mouse

Pajamas, with boundless elation

I saw you were there

To kiss me goodnight.


This poem is property of Lissa Fulton and may not be used without written permission from the author