RoomA Poem by charlieSpring, in all it's forms
and muted, like the root that digs a deep exclusive quiet clay this winter room perennial grips iron-hard the stowaway
the whisk of branch in still-life, bare - until the unstrung harp is sprung - will catch what wings should happen there; next turn the winter room undone
for ‘round it comes, the mountain large, and ever the load goes heaving: a light grown wide, a yawning flame whose fire calls out for the leaving
a drawing from the well once more, the reeving slipped by sleight of hand, and bound beyond the half-closed door, Spring-loaded goes the leaving...
© 2018 charlieFeatured Review
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