#InvisibleThreads

Her home is made for a circular road,
A ballroom full of paper dreams held by a centre piece,
she dances to the twirls of her mother's feet,
The muscle memory of the body's laughter, the taste of burnt toast and Sunday lunch,
Crafted by their own designs,

The newspaper clippings and soft cushion chair, the early words of her father's teachings,
Her first life lesson was taught through the remembrance of French toast and black tea, she had once been angered to,

Her home is made for a circular road,
Across pink papered walls, there are stories and tales, where she had...