Thread: Strings Uncut

There she sat on an old wood chair
A brown-eyed smile, wind blown hair
Last born child, free from care
(Mom had her apron strings on)

The older girl loose, wild was she
Frequent fits fought furiously
Countless times she tried to flee
(Mom had her apron strings worn)

In he crept by the light of dawn
Blue-eyed rebel, Master of Con
Sold his world to chase the pawn
(Mom had her apron strings torn)

A washed up apron stands alone
No one left
No one home
Hung on the rung of the old wood chair
Tired and used from love and care

Welcome, Wisdom. A very well crafted poem with ryhme moving smoothly. I did have a difficult time reading due to font selection, though. Very elegant but you might consider using type such as this for easier reading. Looking forward to more! Laurie

Thanks for reading. Changed the font (bad habit...I am cursed with artistic creativity). Any suggestions for the last line in each of the first three stanzas?

I like very much how you've left it with reference to apron strings. Very powerful poem and easier to read now! Laurie