Here the ashes of the day collect,
in great piles upon the floor, for
nary a breeze blows by. Here the
colors of sunset blend with night
so that you cannot tell where
one ends, and another begins. Here
I dreamed that I could fly away,
that gravity was just my imagining,
that I was lighter than the stars.
Here I wandered inside my own mind,
for days lost in a thought, hours
asking myself the same, unanswerable
question. Here I cooked schemes
not even half baked, bloody red
and raw conceptions, never ready
to be served, to be thrown away or fed
to the dogs. Here have I been
for so long I have forgotten where it is,
or if the darkness is really night,
not just a canopy painted over. Here
I have been me, I think, but no one
will ever know why, nor even
ask. Here, here, here, here, here:
there is nowhere else, not for me.
