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To the Front

The First Year

By Sara BalliettPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
4

On Monday at noon

She comes into bloom,

Fushia and choppy, her hair.

She goes to the door

To begin her grand chore,

Of introducing a few ,or a pair.

The first one is brown

With curls and a crown,

Shes always the one who is boss.

She erects up a sheild

So we all can stay healed,

And noone suffers great loss.

Then llow braids look around

To see if shes found,

A crack for her to engage.

They dont let her peek

Because shes to weak

And sends her back to the cage.

A white light just lingers

But works through our fingers,

She can cover anyones shift.

She has the most power

To make us all cower,

If we tire, she gives us a lift.

The pink toes are so bare

When children need care,

Reassurance in that we trust her.

She gives us the break

That we can all take,

Napping in our sweet slumber.

Theres a mission demand

She shoots up her hand,

Volunteering, as our driver.

We all can retreat

As she takes the front seat,

Gray pavement and lines below her .

The blue one stays down

But she always comes round,

Empty and hollow inside.

Shes jingles her cup

And takes a hand up,

To gulp back and swallow her pride.

Theres one we hold back

Deep, angry and black,

A levy ready to break.

We keep her at bay

And watch what we say,

Tiptoe for everyones sake.

And then there is me

But me became we,

In August they put in a bid.

My hats started changing

My gingerness fading,

Painting the colors of DID.

surreal poetry
4

About the Creator

Sara Balliett

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