Battlefield Desk

 

How the warm room hums to itself a silent hum, what’s needed to be done is done

The carpet coughs under sticky bits of thread

A battlefield of wounded cloth all laid and cut to dead

Sewing machine sits governing in blood thirsty satisfaction,

done its rabid stabbing, no more grinding teeth in action

Just a tomb of plastic over the shreds of frayed up fabric

What once was a time for textile lay torn and truly tragic

Snips of paper, cold still scissors comatose, deceased

Strips of bountiful white cotton now pigmented, bled and creased

Wispy lifeless souls of felt clinging onto sharper things

All go and sew and put together soon lifeless shells and strings

Deadline comes and desks become, oh battlefields left still

All items lay defeated, severed by the silver and the shrill

One day the wind will up again and blow these scraps some place

And all remnants of a project are gone without a trace.