in a tiny corner

of this bottled place

spoons rest in a glass

to feed someone they wait perhaps

copycats of motherly hands

that once fed love

but not any more

times change

we start depending

more and more on steel and plastic

more and more on strangers

than people to whom we belong

our world narrows bit by bit

as we spread our arms farther and wide

looking at the mute spoon

i cannot help but remember those fingers

warm like a winter’s sunshine

soft like dew

such feelings transpired into me through those

those times will never come to me

i wonder how far we have to go before

we are tired

seems like i have reached

my destination

for i can no longer


with spoons made of



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