These are little pockets of warmth
Stored as promises for more.
The hot floor sticks to my steps
And keeps me rooted where I need to be,
Between the penciled in lines,
Resting on the spine of stability.
My limbs branch out like a tree,
My fingers trace the lining
As I wait for my turn.
These are my hopes turned to
Pollen and leaves,
Calming the creases of thinking,
But brooding on the intentions.
And with definitions in a shell,
I will hatch my own inventions.
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