She’s A Golden Child
She comes in white,
Wearing red clothed shoes of her size,
Her office is nearby,
She goes by walking,
Sometimes she is singing,
Sometimes she is watching,
A paint shop and some trees,
She probably wants to think more than that,
But she is stuck in the moment rush,
She feels eccentric,
Coz, being alone is nice and comfy,
She looks for truth in the mirror,
Gives company whoever is nearer,
Lights up for the occasional photographer in her,
Laughs like a clownish girl,
Talks as a foolish dreamer,
Although, having a dream is a puzzling tug,
She keeps mimicking a parrot for a change,
Heaps her quirks for an eye-sight range,
She’s missed herself as a golden child,
Wrapped in the jungle book,
Never be the queen someone else’s mind.
She’s like a funny golden child.
She’s like an endearing golden child.
She’s a golden child!
This is the 75th poem under the poetry journal “Isn’t She A Cape Crusader!” which aims to add 100 poems under 100 days. I missed thirteen days.
Read it and let me know in the comment how it was. You can read another seven (recent) poems on this blog page.
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