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The Writer's desk
September 23, 2010
Sunlight crashes
Into my wooden
Soul
Crumpled paper
Sprayed over
The carpeted floor
Ripe with age
A whisper
The only sound
Slips through my dry
Lips
Hoarse
Like a bucket
Hitting gravel
Crunch
The smell of straw sifts through
The room
Straw?
It blankets every surface
And slithers up
The walls
Obscured
By
Creased
Worn
Pieces of my
Very
Being
Slathered on
The fading blue
Lines
The pencil
A strip of
Graphite
Beckons to me
It’s embellished side
Glinting in
The dusk
Light
It
Is
Here
It
Is
Now
Welcome Home
Writers
© Grace K., Port Washington, NY
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