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<div> </div> <div>Echoes say everything </div> <div>of longing for constancy, </div> <div>nor in their "movement" of bitterness </div> <div>nor of particularly happy milliseconds.</div> <div> Pleather tresses squeal only when rent by rough hands, wind, </div> <div>an exacto's dropped glitter. In my words, not on their own. </div> <div> </div> <div>Be indifferent to innocent stucco. </div> <div>Something is dying everywhere! </div> <div>Best allocate "assets" wisely, with good sense. </div> <div> </div> <div>Fantasies can be used for upward mobility. </div> <div>Failed attempt at "greatness," though, are typical, </div> <div>aren't they?</div> <div> </div> <div>That I could give a one single formula: the brain would not house poems and bricks would stand as bricks. </div> <div> </div> <div> </div>
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What is the sum of 10 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.