Dressed in white,

Drowning in white,

It is unclear whether

This is a custom costume,

That the armchair wears so loosely,

Worn for the sake of festivities,

Or a veil to ward off some of the more

Diabolical furniture.

Namely, the ottomans that circle the living room like

A hungry pack of wolves.

A hungry pack of foot-rests.

Never remaining in one spot for long.

This white robe,

Decorated with ketchup stains and

Ancient crumbs,

Crumbs so stale

Limestone would instead regress to talc.

The chairs vulnerable layer of suede 

Protected  only by this thin layer of cotton.

The choirs vulnerable voices layered in soprano

Projected only by a thin layer of static electricity.

This synthetic  swath

Born from the most  majestic of wombs,

&

Eventually

Spun from golden looms.

The finished product

Shines like  a silver cloud as the morning sun peeks around the curtailing curtains.

Dust does not gather here,

Dust  instead settles here.

Dust becomes diamonds here.

Underneath infinite fibers,

Underneath the creaking frame,

Where hidden sinew steadily unwinds,

Recoiling into messy piles compression,

Reclining almost  to the point  of  hibernation.