All cried "Fire",
As there's trouble.
The ring, tender and round.
The rose bedstead,
Having remained cold.
Poor, rather fallen
World pillow,
Articulated white,
Formed more patchwork.
Memoirs, perhaps misty, contract.
Apparently his
Last imprint.
In talks, Oliver paused to take
Some old, extant literature
Through robes, upon wildly
Evident mortality.
Loud hands cheer the deliberation
Of the Overseer's wisdom to voice
To a stranger.
Name the doctors of the overgrown.
The glass lungs producing a human bottle,
Experienced in space gloves
And carelessly appeared fire.
The bottle case said longer.
Consolatory speech,
Hitherto hastily interposed.
YOU ARE READING
Oliver's Weatherworld ✔
PoetryCOMPLETE. One of my occasional writing practices is cerebral poetry. Just me, some great coffee, random orchestral in the background, and my very hipster typewriter that prints in cursive. Is there meaning to anything I've written? Perhaps. I find t...
