Where lines meet the edge



The tables talk here ,

Without the noise of space,

White sets the mood ,

Beginning with the background of grey ,

Eames makes the water gurgle ,

The silence reflects the name.

There isn’t much happening,

yet its there ,

It makes you think,

It makes you stare.

Losing focus ,

Not of spindly legs or shiny cutlery ,

It darts along the room,

Masking the petty ;

Never would have been an experiment ,

Sans the conviction or the solemnity .

These edges that meet the lines,

With textures that meld ,

Together by  default intentions.

A vindication of light and seasons.

Translating to a pedestal for conversation ,

 The lines meet their edge for an designed reason.

In this  private cocoon ,

One wanders ,

To understand

Why they feel so content here .


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