Unfocusing my eyes as
thoughts run dry from my mind,
sitting in this softly lit room.
The insistent ticking of a childhood clock
lays upside-down at the nightstand,
drowning in residue of unfinished work.
A rhythmic sound weaving through
stacks of ripening books,
piles of papers,
strewn aside in a fit of anguish.
Pictures pinned to a board
disrupt the stilled atmosphere,
their faint scraping
brought on by the overhead fan.
The breeze brings a crisp,
unlively humour to the room
which numbs my bare hands
as they trace over a keyboard for years on end.
Hours spent in disarray
bleed into each other,
a broken ink cartridge spilled
on a cream colored sheet.
So much to do and all the time to do it,
yet there’s never enough
seconds in a minute,
minutes in an hour;
a missing sense of motivation.
An empty conscience is most welcomed
when the ongoing stream of noise
in your head
on for too long.
Providing a wash of relief
when the swarming of bees in the back of your mind
Finally slows to a comforting silence
and draws a blank.