Metanoia.

In the time-worn canvas, 

A child’s doll

Rests 

With a crack in the face

Spiralling down, 

Aching muscles strewn aside, 

Disregarded.

The mind 

Becomes an archive 

Of old cassettes 

That used to play fancy lullabies 

But now smell of 

Spilled liquor 

And guarded smiles.

The most evidential part 

Of growing up is 

Realising 

You cannot always keep 

The ones you love.

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