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.