Adulthood

Golden-Wine.jpg

I remember my mother

would press a kiss atop my head

to signal the authors in my mind

to come alive and make me dream

she would always leave

a light on for me

that seemingly

only fairies could make

and I felt content

but now the kisses

surrendered to bruises

authors retired to illustrators

that only painted in red

and that fairy light

turned to Midas’ color of regret

and the reflection of realization.

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