Tuesday, April 21, 2015

More Whimsy

Odd Ode

I'm a room for the inarticulate choir.
No trappings of guile,
no beading of worries into marvels 
of decor. Forever spring cleaning
residue of last season's bargaining 
for. Shaking out rugs of
their crusty rudiments of
regret I have no use for.
Not questioning the past
or lend it cause to outlast 
what I may be becoming
when a muse strikes me dumb 
and delivers her tongue 
as redemption. 


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