Collections litter boxes
                              unkempt
in the corners of my room.
filtering through snowstorms
of white laced with scribbled verse.

Memoires sewn in tapestry of
what was wondering within
the cotton of thought and the
needle of motion of my pencil.

There are momentary pauses
laced with eyes gauging words.
Then there are crumbled echoes
of what now litter a tiny  bin.

I walk from the room of my conscious
verses some unkempt in the corner,
others slung into a void of rejection.
I may visit momentary , but now I write.