I am Brahm's Lullaby,
sung each night with made-up verses
and a prayer for safety and happiness.
I will be the card of faces,
which upon the palm of seven names
is my future of determination.
I want to be the wind
through a thick-trunked oak.
The force only ends at the end of rain forever.
I used to be a cardboard box,
the likes of which are anything
within the first hour on my side.
I let go of the number twelve,
forced to by the nods
of those who have already lost their wonder
I've forgotten the cars passing
by the circle of black pavement;
cold metal with warm faces.
I remember the ceramic bowl,
the blue stripe
where the milk level once was.
Draft two, creative writing assignment number one. Creative writing is a hard class. o.o
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