A poem written through the eyes of a six year old child.
I am six and the floor is made of lava
Only the bed can withstand the heat
And the couch cushions, if we need them
And maybe me, if I wear my boots.
Princess comes close and disappears in puff of smoke
She smells like burnt hair and fingernails
Just like momma when the Sunday candle jumped.
I need to jump soon, or maybe get some help
But dad's at work and not so great at lava jumping
Mom's busy, cooking cereal for dinner.
Pour some water on it, make it rock
Even I know it's just toasty stones
I could probably make some in the oven.
I could jump and risk it
I'm sure it's cooled by now
Daddy says it's not even real.
Nope
He was wrong
Now I smell like fingernails and hair
Maybe I should take a bath?
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