Crumpled poems lay in heaps
Old newspapers from last week,
As discarded thoughts of an old regime
A cluttered room still unredeemed.
Coats hang menacingly on the door,
Skittles rappers on the floor,
Dark guardians of a forbidden treasure.
Bed remains unmade,
A stack of books his choice of leisure;
Last weeks jeans still block the path,
Dirty dishes lay untouched,
White air forces out of place,
Unknown creatures stir, unwatched.
Among this wreck he lays reclined ,
Lost in an abyssal depth of mind,
Unsightly coin case on the windows hinge,
With a vacuum cleaner collecting dust
On the corners fringe.
The words to write all seem long gone,
As a mixed CD play his favortie songs.
Depression ebbs as feelings flow,
No clean up for this battered soul.
So lock the door ignoring knocks!
Dispersing all the moth-ball stock,
He sips the draught of unborn dreams,
Till a Deus ex machina comes to clean.
Anston
