A brown bowl-cut absorbing
the scorching summer sun,
but all that’s on her mind
is Cheerios, splayed on the
Lace-edge, socked feet dangle over
polished pink shoes, glinting the rays
from the patchwork window
into her attentive eyes.
Her voice squeaks over the congregation,
too agitated with anticipation.
The tune overcomes her want for
whole-grain loops of goodness,
and she bursts out above the
weekly mumblers of passive faith.
And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings.
Bare you on the breath of dawn.
Make you to shine like the sun,
and hold you in the palm of his hand.
her Cheerios are simple, sweet.
Perfect circles, floating in the white abyss,
and true faith still shown in her smile.
…once again, I have no idea. This one is far worse. Someone rip it apart for me so I don’t feel so bad about how awful this is. Please.