The four walls of my room
trap and collect and harden
all that manages to fall in through
the cracks of destitude on
the ceiling
until everything, both the
festive and clean
and the deplorable and rotten
hang heavy in the air.
For even the sweetness of flowers
can suffocate the nuseryman
lest he forgets to open her window.
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The Art Of Speech - Poetry
PoetryCollection of life inspired poems for international reads.
