The Abode and its Rooms

The Lady of Shalott

After a distance and a fashion,

there is a maid

and her abode.


Wherein she, the archivist,

boxes cleverly and with

some binding intent.


To save herself, or a memento,

but safe she muses illusory,

boxes, chambers, rooms.


Pages down, scrolls command

you May blossom, to now provide

starting Hart blooms.


All the while waves pound

furthest shores, without relent,

those once molten stones.


The ones, some simulated hearts,

you hoisted up and ported,

they endure, not eroded.