you’re in a bed
that’s whitest white
you know not whether day or night
a voice is singing in your head
this is your bed
you’re in a room
you feel a chill
a rocking horse is standing still
there is no light to pierce the gloom
this is your room
you’re in a house
that’s tall and grey
where childhood seems so far away
it slips by quietly like a mouse
this is your house
you’re in a street
that’s long and wide
with tall green trees on either side
where neighbours, friends and ghosts all meet
this is your street
you’re in a town
it seems so small
can you read the writing on the wall?
the seasons come and go around
this is your town
you’re in a land
that seems quite strange
where the only iron rule is change
there’s no-one there to take your hand
this is your land
you’re in a world
you rub your eyes
its not one that you recognise
somewhere your freak-flag lies unfurled
this is your world
3 comments:
Ceaseless mutability.
I particularly like the final two stanzas. I really like your style, Tom.
Thanks SB, I think this is another "abandoned" poem.
Maybe just left on the shelf for a while? I can't resist picking away at things, myself. I like it as it is, anyway.
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