deepundergroundpoetry.com
Room#7
I swallow reality and wait for the trip.
Comfort to cold,
and cold to oblivion...
The tiny comets of emotion
leave trails that form a masterpiece of definition...
Where I can move within the artwork...
though never become a part of it.
They'll find me in the words left
in the attic of where I last lived.
Scan the pages,and toss them in the box marked"to throw away.
"When they've cleared enough room for the next one to reside,
at least leave behind a piece of paper...
and something to write with.
Comfort to cold,
and cold to oblivion...
The tiny comets of emotion
leave trails that form a masterpiece of definition...
Where I can move within the artwork...
though never become a part of it.
They'll find me in the words left
in the attic of where I last lived.
Scan the pages,and toss them in the box marked"to throw away.
"When they've cleared enough room for the next one to reside,
at least leave behind a piece of paper...
and something to write with.
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