Scattered papers everywhere and sticky notes galore,
Strewn about a writing desk to spill upon the floor.
Fragments of a story, random remnants of a thought,
Receipts to jar the memories of all the caffeine bought.
Some pens lie resting idly amid the jumbled space,
Not a place for anything, so everything’s in place.
Sunlight through the window pane, a whiff of something warm,
The ecstasy of stale routine that never seems the norm.
A whisper in the back of dreams sets the keyboard clacking,
The distant cry of an idea to fill the blank page lacking.
Out of chaos, order springs, a brand new world is born,
Potential snaring mind and thought, the needs of Earth to scorn.
Invisible plane of diction, landscapes carved by prose,
Imagination breathing life to that which no eye knows.
Lost in this new creation, what’s real begins to blur,
Awake to find the world is strange, though things are as they were.
Still scattered papers all around, still stickies piled high,
Still all the worries and the woes no fiction can deny.
Yet, for that fleeting moment, within that taste of ecstasy,
The horde of fears and troubles acquiesced to fantasy.
So much more than words on paper, or a fractured manuscript,
The contents of that cluttered desk speak to a soul that’s stripped.
There’s a beauty in the jumble, in what the sticky notes impart,
For among those scattered papers, a searching man can find his heart.
