poems | allegra osati

poem seventy one.

an imperfect phrase teeters on my doorstep flitting to my windowsill roosting like a robin in winter

putting the pieces back together that even super glue cannot mend you reach into the real and bring back hope

today i achieved the dawn of a new age an ironclad opportunity a golden moment of perspective

do you watch as she waddles to the edge? as she teeters precariously upon her perch the height unnerving but unreal

shoving syllables into a sieve of simplicity satisfying something somewhere for someone

music creates a space in me i go in secret she who creates music changes everything