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

D

r

a

g

s

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.