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He was in his room, half awake, half asleep |
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The walls of the room seem to alter angles |
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Elongating and shrinking alternately |
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Then twisting around completely so that he was on the opposite side of the room |
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A trick of the light and too much caffeine, he thought |
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Then came a knock on the door |
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And this sound was the same dark-brown tone as the wood of which the door was made |
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At first, he thought he'd imagined it |
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Because it would not have been out of place with the other strange hallucinatory events of that night |
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But then it came again |
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Only heavier this time |
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With a sense of real urgency |
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So pulling himself up |
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And stepping through pools of moonlight and shadow |
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He made his bleary way across the room towards the door |
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And slowly, apprehensively, raised the latch |
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The latch became a fingertip, touching his own |
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Energy sapping as a new form, transversing the edge of his emotions |
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His power became his agony, his power knew no bounds |
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Whereas before, his peace withstood the vastness |
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His prerogative became an endless force of the all impossible |
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His final soul is flying with contempt only |
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Even the legendary glance backward to meet with eternity's stone in peace or save his already destroyed |
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You cannot share, the temperature is rising |
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The ghost and monkeys make a choice |
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This... |
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This... |
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He tried to will himself back to bed |
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He wanted desperately to feel the reassuring crisp, white sheets once taken for granted |
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To be back home, safe as houses, protected by walls covered in familiar patterns |
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But even wallpaper had become sinister to him |
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He remembered staring into the paisley print and seeing a repetition of skulls |
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At night he would listen to the click of heels on the concrete outside |
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And try to imagine the facial features of the unseen figure |
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He would always see his own face |
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And another realization of this prophecy rang terrible and true |
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For at this moment, it was indeed, his own feet that filled the shoes |
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Shoes that no man would want to wear |
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Into the hills then to search for another searcher's closely held goals |
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Into the forest under the billowing leaves |
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Under the dreadful birds, the singing soil, the decrepid babies, the unhappy new loves |
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The preaching alphabutics, the long-lost lovers never to find the safety of their mothers |
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In fact, all the guilty clouds he will move into a playground |
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A sense of moonlight and shadow |
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All the stars touch to the cold molten sunflower, fly to his middle eye |
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The wallpaper had sinister tones |
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Alas, white cold |
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Alas, rainbow's middle infinity's destination. |
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All life's drums drink from bottles and visioins are blinded |
