When fondly looking back to younger days,
We fill them with those same old rosy hues
That cloud a glass of wine, spilling a haze
Of dull content to wash away our blues.
Yet those select scenes chosen to amuse
Are chosen with care by survivor’s hand,
Maternally protecting us from views
Too frozen by fear for our sight to stand.
So mother memory paints pastel land,
With pixie population, lit by rays
From smiling sun and merry moon; she’ll use
Some scenes of summer or white winterland,
But cleans until unseen the bully’s gaze,
And teens who barely got through the abuse.
Mon 4 June 2007
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