My desk is scattered with
notes, drafts, prototypes,
of my love letters to the world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of hieroglyphic ink,
pleading for my future self
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton in my thoughts.
Beside them, the trusted red wine
to chase down the pressures
of the world, hold them in line.
Each sip, a godsend,
each bottle a promise
that love will never end.
The simple pleasure of a desk;
a confounding beauty,
the collage to your life
and all that preoccupies you.
Your personality is laid before you;
each picture, beer bottle, notebook,
a fragment of yourself.
My desk is scattered in
the loves, hates and frustrations
of my place within this world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of unintelligible ink,
pleading for some higher power
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton that is myself.
