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. 

~ LCMH