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"unconducted" poems
The misty fog outside, condenses into a speckled bedroom glass.   Through which, nestled deep under the blanket, I hear the orchestra of a rainy 8am life.   Bothered by the unconducted iso-rhythms of dripping water droplets, dropping onto the metal window sill, I peak my head out from under the duvet and yawn out the stale air from my lungs.   I notice the coffee left for me on the bedside table before she left.   I grasp the warm little blue cup.   I hear the birds in the trees somewhere below warming up their sleepy little lungs.   I close my eyes and feel the cold air through the window.   Hiding under my duvet, I drift back to sleep.
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
Arby
Sleepy Little Lungs
The misty fog outside, condenses into a speckled bedroom glass.   Through which, nestled deep under the blanket, I hear the orchestra of a rainy 8am life.   Bothered by the unconducted iso-rhythms of dripping water droplets, dropping onto the metal window sill, I peak my head out from under the duvet and yawn out the stale air from my lungs.   I notice the coffee left for me on the bedside table before she left.   I grasp the warm little blue cup.   I hear the birds in the trees somewhere below warming up their sleepy little lungs.   I close my eyes and feel the cold air through the window.   Hiding under my duvet, I drift back to sleep.
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