Christmas Eyes
Eyes glassy to the medication
messy are the red on wrists
I hate those grey heavy doors
They carry only misery lore
of the souls lost to hospitals
And the final breathes
A child make wishes.
A youth afraid ceases of breathing
would suddenly stop one day,
with my autism child therapist
now I hope it occurs every-day.
Slowly a letter in an envelope
With words reduced to less than I.
Copyright © Ryan Geoffrey-Hayward | Year Posted 2025
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