From The ViewA Poem by Yoli
Of what stings, and brings stiff
Air in the room. Room is small of fifteen years. Bruise in walls, paint that did not come with the bruises The White is spread, not spared of the many words that did not come from the guard, Smudged brush grey of years that did not swell of swaths that did not stack. The Desk is by the Church from the Window of Wood that is not wood disassembling in spite of being unable to rot. And what rots and ripples by years of rains left open from the Window, Is the Map, on the desk. It sticks damp papers under, the heart, festering harvest. The clock of the Room is the Church standing by the void, thick toc tricks on someone, slowly, (slowly slowly) slowly loosing lungs.
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1 Review Added on November 26, 2024 Last Updated on November 26, 2024 AuthorYoliFranceAboutdetangling my pen nb: don't send me dms if their intent is to ask me private questions more..Writing
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