The threadspool spills, and the needles all scatter,
Buried in thoughts, my mind wanders through clatter.
Forges a path, on its own guilt-seed feet.
Words clutter here, and scramble to mete,
But the birds sing in Greek,
And pen scratches at paper
When it’s missing its ink.

I take what I can, quick bursts at their best,
My words dead on paper, I lay them to rest.