Most days,
I tread softly on the porcelain shards
of shattered expectations,
cringing at the crunch
of shell against concrete.
The yolk has long since dried
into an unsightly stain,
yellow against gray;
tepid, no longer lucid -
no meringue to savor
against the sorrow.
Only pallid parchment
will save me from the bitterness
that comes from infinite yearning;
I pour my passion
from an unending well of deep, dark ink,
smearing the pages with an occasional tear
that betrays what I believe in,
what I would willingly barter
for a single act of silence that soothes.
Honorable mention
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Lita
