The room, bright light, plentiful mirrors,
the sweep of curtains,
the sense of misery at the dreadful experience.
Her fingers so weak had stiffened like sticks,
she heard nothing as she stood dizzily across the hearthrug.
the clear red hot mass of the fire on the blue and cream tiles,
almost unrecognizable with fear:
with trembling limbs and burning eyes
her whole hand fumbled and slurred.
She could not rid of her nervousness.
This is a ‘found’ poem, created after I erased from ‘Pointed Roofs’ by Dorothy Miller Richardson at Erasures. Here is my attempt at Wave Poetry site.
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