There comes a time the life of bind
when books on spines do squeeze and grind
pages 'tach to center folded
sages latch left hander molded
creature's comfort fades to green
breathing coffee made of steam
descriptive buffer mellow slow
prescription tougher than we show
hidden faces held to light
shadows lost on undone night
my back is taut from over front
side hackle wrought by clover hunt
luck would have the stolen crow
picking streets whose trashing flow
refuse to make a stated place
bemuse the pain unto your grace.
Roman Ryan 