Bruised; not Broken
The cup broke,
Little Tim did not know what to do,
How to react, to stay silent, to cry
Or, to be broken and quietly pry.
The yellow and the green
Scattered all over the floor; the porcelain.
It was a mess, a mess to be cleared
A mess that was smeared
With; the cup that was his favourite.
It was second grade since he first saw
The yellow, the green,
The warm milk within,
Little Tim wouldn’t drink from anything else.
But tomorrow awaits; it’s a new dawn,
Little Tim has to make do with a new one.
He can cry that it’s gone,
He can cry that it’s all over the floor,
But when the milk is served,
It may not even be porcelain
But, Tim would know that it’s time,
That something better awaits him, Something that he can call ‘mine’.