Cold

Returning to my hotel room

the way arrayed with artless dust

settling at my wood-chewed seat

crafting a plan to hatch this eve

feeding the scar of cream curtain.

 


The depth of outside shatters within

voices ring out in stuck symmetry

the gramophone and a fiend's cackle

this draught declines my fervent plea

a brush so worn as to paint me cold.
 

New

◄ River

Sleet ►

Comments

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Martin Elder

Mon 8th Feb 2016 21:46

Beautiful use and flow of words David, I love it.

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