...Tangled in a Web of Thought...

*Tangled in a Web of Thought*

You sit bold upon my bedroom wall and shuffle so often
- from a darkened oak ledge with dust-covered literature.
Some of which lie still for well over five years.
- to a desk where several sheets, stained of coffee, are sprawled;
though placed there carefully at first within this past week.
My study desk where I often sit, just sit and sometimes write
And my bookshelf that I rarely use at present but still it is used.

Which do you prefer?
Which would you rather call home?

So quiet do your eight long legs latch onto shelf or desk
bringing you to one or taking you from the other.
So quick do they enable you to sail and float across the room.
Those silken strings like tapestry let you dance far into safety
like a swinging trapeze you fly high over the darkened oak shelf and
its dust covered contents, up onto the sill of the window.

Is that where you live? Do you live amongst a crack or a crevice of my window?

The room is calm and I am too! Are you calm?

The very modern grandfather-like clock that I bought last year ticks out.
It is somewhat big and makes the room appear smaller.
Some music still sounds from two large speakers occupying the corners,
Rufus Wainwright plays loud.

Which sounds better to you?

Do you shuffle as the sounds vibrate the walls, is that why you shuffle?
Do you dance to the constant beat of the ticking time or
do you sway to what the piano has to say?
Oh please tell me why you dance and sway and in one place you don’t remain
or tell me what you think and see when you go from desk to shelf.

But with a loud and harsh thump which swooped from over my shoulder
The Sunday Times thuds upon the sill and follows closely your evident fall.
An ink stain marks where you once stood tall, once stood and stared and lived.
Now you lie beneath the sill, beneath several silken strings unattached and hanging dependently.
They hang like icicles do in winter & your soulless body lies as cold as they would be
My questions still remain just as my memory of you will and on it I’ll often still dwell.