Matter of chance, matter of luck
the white room found us together
Or shall I say we met at the room?
It doesn't matter, but that'd be better.
More accurate, more precise
the white room had a center
in the middle of the piece
you and I slept forever.
Stupid poem out of metric
with no rythm, with no rime.
Stupid poem that isn't one
that lacks everything a poem has.
Everything but inspiration
not much, perhaps
but enough to give the poet
its first poem at last.
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