What's On Display
S
Shaun Cronick
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I steeple my hands,
Then lower my head.
And clear my mind,
All thoughts to shred.
I think again,
And start anew.
As logic dictates,
An image to view.
It has a name,
And a definition.
As my poem begins,
In its composition.
Slowly but surely,
Word by word.
A message born,
Soon to be heard.
It gathers pace,
My imagination soars.
Never trapped behind,
Mindful locked doors.
I did my best,
After a long day.
As I now end,
What's on display.
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