Grandmother’s Bedtime Stories


Floral pastel couches, red rooms

Leading susceptibly into a dark bloom

Sitting and waiting for black and white news.

No grey.


Quickly they come with their green and their gold

Faces of stone tell us to take what we can hold

I hold my children, run I was told.

Too late.


Machines everywhere, they worship construction

Made by man, the root of destruction.

I look up to Him, and wait for my introduction

I receive no answer.


Maya is a poet who likes pasta. 

Follow her at: maya.o.papaya