Following logic
like a terrible art
the lines never breathed
life from hue
The atmosphere, less
colorful concepts and persistent
passion became more
waxy molds
and wicks
unlit.
From its very bend
and knowing frame
even the desk
knew the lofty theme
of its heavy stacks.
A tendril of smoke loops
luxuriously, the only clue
to a present mind
like that hotel
at the city limits;
guestless
but still open.
