Metal bird drums among the clouds,
regularly each morning like broken alarm clock.
Automated, she reached for the bruised pot
the one in which she would usually make coffee.
Instead, she just licks fresh water from her palm.
Warmed up, she searched for silk tights
and fake leather boots.
Instead, she leaves her coarse feet and ingrown
toenails to bloom.
Played in, deceiving softness of her bed
she replaces for ripened hard floor.
Faced to a nameless wall, disarmed void of things
she could finally swell into her own innocence.
Maja S. Todorovic