Empty hollow lines of many different lengths
Are loosely meshed upon the floor
Filled with bits of time forgotten
Yet never swept outside the open doors

Tiny pieces of fragile moments lie
Untouched and yet special and so rare
Forever to be quietly hidden
From never ending stares

Stares that hollow out the grain
Of wood unfinished but still not new
That burn and turn into a ring
Creating what is true

Round and round in circles cleanly cut
The victim of the spin
Hides and swirls in sight unseen
Spinning in the wind