Woolly Boats
These are not socks.
They are two small, woolly boats
sailing the floor.
They keep a map.
Drawn in gray-colored dust.
Filled with tiny, tired strings.
My left sock laughs first.
A dry, scratchy giggle
trapped in my shoe.
They get lonely.
Wish for one purple feather.
To hide behind the clock.
You pull them off. Snap!
The air inside shivers.
Your foot feels like cold, bright ice-cream.
They whisper: Escape.
Plotting to become
two small, happy flags
waving from the back of the moon.
They are two small, woolly boats
sailing the floor.
They keep a map.
Drawn in gray-colored dust.
Filled with tiny, tired strings.
My left sock laughs first.
A dry, scratchy giggle
trapped in my shoe.
They get lonely.
Wish for one purple feather.
To hide behind the clock.
You pull them off. Snap!
The air inside shivers.
Your foot feels like cold, bright ice-cream.
They whisper: Escape.
Plotting to become
two small, happy flags
waving from the back of the moon.
This poem is copyright (©) Brandi Lynn 2026
About the Writer
Brandi Lynn
After finding peace by allowing her experiences to flow onto paper, Brandi Lynn embraced art and writing as a non-negotiable tool for self-acceptance. As an artist, writer, and literacy specialist, her poetry and visual work embody the quiet beauty of an authentic perspective. She is now sharing her work more widely while actively developing a children's book and innovative learning kits, hoping to make reading as free and expressive as her art.
