The sound of cold tools haunt her mostly,
mostly when she dreams of a childs future
licking rosy red lollipops in pigtailed curls.

Capped cavities feed like belly worms in moist dirt,
crawling carelessly,
tickling those sensations of a wanted once child.

Times that are there; chance is simply to high to risk.
What abouts dressed with what if's.
Yellow tint walls swinging with souls of sadness.
Conversations seem repetitive and generic.
The rule is: do not sit up to look at his face.
Relationships and doctoral patient bonds are certainly forbidden.
We all sit in our chair,
reclined and cluelessly regretting.
Smiles are frowned upon.

Child like flavors taste so sweet against a tasteless
numb tongue. Barren women still yearn
for buds that sprout a harvest full of chance.