Short poem 2.
Falling, like frosted glass.
Each fragment, a clue,
each shard, a puzzle piece,
portraying your life before the needle
slowly sucked it away.
Back, when you laughed like a lory at sunrise,
leaped purposefully like a gazelle on thatch.
Back, before you strayed down the crooked road
the illusion of freedom provides.
Let’s glue these pieces back together.