Every time it is back to the room,
Ten by seven, like a cell,
To sit and scatter thoughts on the floor
where they rest with tattered thread.
Old and worn clothes belie their worth;
Some earned with fingers and feet,
Others through a bright red tag,
But all to broken furniture.
Here, the storms rage from the mind
and on to scraps of organised paper,
Through maelstrom of dark and
closed window, covered by cloth.
Every time it is back to the room.
Ten by seven. Like a cell.
Words form themselves from thoughts
scattered on the tattered thread.