The Writing Room

There is a room to which I go when strick-
en by the muse. A quiet room with chair
and desk, my journal and a pen to write.

There is a fire and blankets for their warmth,
And windows on the ever changing world,
And solitude in which I may reflect

Upon the roiling static that occludes 

My senses as I struggle through the day, 

Oblivious to others as they are.

Alone? Not so, for in my journal comes

To life the others that I have perceived,

Though dimly, through the static of the world.

Reflection lets the tangled threads unwind.

I see and hear and feel you from afar.

I write with hope my words will make the trip

To you when you are in this room.

And so we share this place of solitude,

For now the world - our fears,  allow naught else.

Perhaps, some day when fears are set aside

This room will grow into the world.

The roiling static slowly fades away

Revealing chairs for two.