A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

What can I call 

this collection of thoughts, 

recurrent, persistent, 

intrusive, unwanted?

Sometimes it’s a jumble,

an overgrown jungle,

messy, confusing

(I’m losing

my way).

Sometimes a succession,

with clear destination,

till the train misses the station

and then it derails. 

And if it’s a train

then is my brain

the tracks? I think 

they’re in a state of disrepair.

People say brainstorm 

with good connotations:

creativity, ingenuity,

innovations, solutions.

Are none of your brainstorms

as wild as mine?

A downpour of thoughts,

some as large as a hail stone,

a thorough drenching

that muddies the ground. 

Wind speed picks up,

and the noise can be deafening,

drowning out conversation 

as I seek shelter. 

Thoughts flying round

tossed by gale force winds, 

leaving a trail of debris,

then the eye of the storm.

A moment of clarity, 

a moment of peace,

a moment of silence,

before they return.

They may be only thoughts,

not a tangible thing,

yet true or false,

they are like the wind. 

When they are true

and kind, then I find

they are the gentlest of breezes

rustling the leaves in the trees,

cooling the heat of the day,

wafting a pleasant odour. 

But the false ones

wreak havoc

with forceful gusts

and darkened skies

and lightning strikes,

and it’s all I can do

to batten down the hatches,

ride this out,

repair the damage.