Warm Hands

by Eryn Greenaway aged 16

I wake every morning, listen to you,
Your sounds filling every single corner
Of our cramped two bedroom, furniture skewed
As if tossed aside. A fellow mourner

Of a time before your screaming came;
A phase of peace before your blood ran hot
And your eyes turned cold. You put out our flame,
Setting your own ablaze without a thought.

Glass breaks and hearts shatter at your hands.
Tears flow and words are in drought but screams flood.
What happened to our promise, all our plans?
I breathe. You slam your fist down with a thud.

We vowed that spring day: til death do us part.
Now snow falls and you tear our work of art.

The Poetry Zone

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