What's On Display

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.