There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways
There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.
It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.
Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is
…To make the tea?
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 7:43 AM UTC
There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways
There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.
It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.
Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is
…To make the tea?