Title:
Trespassing headlights scan the ceiling first botched and languid, linger little brighter swells surging yet at last the last vestige faster and faster and then slightly backwards come back words so fast her mind flashes imagined disasters imagines she'll lack words, but they're there in their there and that's where you will find them like sifting through litter for littler cat turds less and less heart flights pan the sealing another moment, another fate off- plumb in the dark between chipped paint and plaster to see with no eyes while asleep is fictionless One more night spent wondering if she has got words?
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 8 and 5:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.