Chipped teeth of Malachite

A frigid pool of white,
A rustic mirror my past,
Racing through the hills engulfed in fog,
The hills are chipped teeth of malachite,
I want to be a young seven-year old,
But they say I’m ten.
As I race through the hills,
I’m reliving it all again.
I chase my cousins through the hills,
Tears start flooding in,
When memories are so sharp, the blade tears through my heart,
As I chase my cousin through the hills, the tears start flooding in.
Shray darts far across the hills, Ishani a finger length,
The wind around snaps like the crack of a whip.
My music box may seem white, bland to the overlookers’ eye,
But I see dancing hues of ultra-marine, fluorescents purple and vermillion.
We all stop, throats raspy and dry, as we suck strawberry lollipops,
The crinkled melody stops, like an old horse to plough on.
The melody of the girl I once was…
The girl I shall always be.