At the house of found poetry
exists a litany of unfinished stories
bound together by artifacts
gleaned from psychological storage bins
encrusted with gems and dust.
Unsychronized chiming clocks
randomly call out the hours
each a clanging reminder
of something left unsaid.
Pointless pencils lie in wait
to tell tales of ages chronicled
in the layers and layers of lyrical words
guarded jealously by the dragon
who cannot read.
(c)2013 Noreen Braman
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