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
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
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,
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.