I woke up amongst the toil and frigid lock.
Taciturn, still I\'m holding thought.
Like balls of yarn spinning round
And round and round
Collecting daylight in ragged threads.
All For this, a marring hustle, lead by
The hum of our beating hearts
In the barrels of a ghost.
How great, the bellows churn,
When old light plays an overture
In the waves of someone elses dust.
This room conceals whats been lost.
And those made in it,
Are the only perfect reflection of me.
But yet, i dont know how
I could call a single space, my own.
So, I wait to gather what is left behind.
These little things I find,
Remind me that I am named,
Though without certainty,
Chained to the nothing knot
And gone before yesterday.
Jasmine Allen ©