Quand il y a assourdissement

Her head is full of thoughts
But her little room is quiet,
Except for the muffled sounds from the motorway,
And the ticking, on her desk, from the clock she made.

Her bed is warm and full of her body,
Wrapped in sheets and a clean, grey hoody,
That kept her warm, across the world,
On seats and trains, and planes she curled.

But still it is quiet,
Silent, in fact
And a pile of books and papers
Remind her to act
With silent voices,
Highlighting her choices,
But she writes out her poem instead,
And doesn't get out of her bed.