walls of poetry - rock you hold you -

whispering pale yellow chips to complete your vowels,

your sighs are rosebuds of butter and moss at the end of spring

but you are no carefree sleeper

you mirror angst and frowns

or laugh in an ungainly manner in your sleep

you have to concentrate on it;

no arm carelessly dangles in angelic angle

but  sunny drapes push you up

put you down

pull you past

back within the mossy walls of yellow

your happy place