The photo is mine.

She languishes in the window seat peering dreamily thru sunlit glass, upon the lush rolling hills of wild flowers, and endless seas of emerald grass.

On the breeze the scent of hyacinth, and fresh baked cinnamon apple pie, kept warm by a sun that never sets- held aloft, in springs eternal azure sky.

She is adorned, in the crispest organdy, trimmed in exquisite Italian lace, as a halo of flame kissed ringlets, frame her inordinately delicate face.

She is a vision, of unattainable perfection that exists solely inside her own head- where she remains inadequacies prisoner, in a cage made of gingerbread…

3 thoughts on “Gingerbread

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