Sometimes when I close my eyes I can see it. Wooden floors running like sunlight from sadness beneath our waking feet.
Walls warm with permanence. The sound of pine needles dropping to the earth and new grass sprouting up beneath their weight. The smell of wet soil without rain. This is the ghost of things undead. This is the place we breathe into, begging for a heartbeat. Other days I am blind. The insides of my eyes forming the black walls of my prison. The fear that this sightlessness has great weight. The desperate building of imperfect corners and mismatched windows. My mind goes off like a firecracker; shooting spark in all directions. Deafening. I try to pick up the pieces, but they burn my hands. The bell tolls and I am left with footprints. Today is neither. Glowing with grey. Riding the newest old dream just behind the wake of the last great hope. Eyes are irrelevant with hands like today.