Being

When words, left to lain about

Like so many unread newspapers,

Filled the vacant rooms

That, nevertheless, were full of crap.

 

And so, the unanchored thoughts

Wondered around the empty house

Hoping iron spikes would stab them down

Upon their lost intention

 

While waiting the long wait -

Until silence regained place

And then, the calm shall assume the single reason

To continue to be... being.