prisoned in cream-kissed-
walls. outside, wheels re-
tain its daily, restless toil.
pair of wheat feet frozen in
tiled snow, still, free hands’ ink, flows.
—
I write because I read. I read because I write.
prisoned in cream-kissed-
walls. outside, wheels re-
tain its daily, restless toil.
pair of wheat feet frozen in
tiled snow, still, free hands’ ink, flows.
—
Is it to the right,
or is it to the near left?
Should I cross the bridge
or should I retreat before
the inevitable fall?
—