Title:
move a little in ceaseless cold with unnatural distance, diseased doorhandles terrified learners learning themselves from spruce, sanitizer, crow chortle. In a forest somewhere, unseen blossoming trees; they are not in this house with its distance, door handles, lock down in the gully, fresh streams of knowing nothing at all is forever in this stronghold of handheldlessness.
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 11 and 7:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.