Seabird
The drawer holds no confusion,
Nor secrecy or calculated space
Of rotting and impure breeding,
Under these invisible under-layers
Of brittle papers and sharp pens.
The drawer has life in the hinges
That speaks of pain at being unopened
And creaks of zealous joy for wrists
That pull love out of insignificance
And approve of unfabricated stances.
Copyright © Witty Fay | Year Posted 2015
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