Today, the doorbell of my mental hideout rang.
It rang with a sound like twinkling waterfalls without the moisture,
And tweeted like a soft pillow from my 5-year-old camping nest.

The scorching glare of darkness crawled up the stairs and seeped
Past the crackling summer which was too cold for me.
It was a chill that was like purple and green and blue.

I went to a hut to produce my own perfume,
Scented with exhaustion and misery.
There is not much else I can add, the shelves are bare as if
A theif came in and out and never came back.

When silence finally speaks, it’s time I fall back into my chair,
A long forgotten place of rest. It’s not really that sweet,
Not really like the sugar leaves stored deep down in my
Bluish drawer.

Little things turn big and now
Incredible memories spin round and round.
Flying dreams are sometimes too quick to chase
Even though its me on the pilot’s seat.

Who said it was blue? When I think of
A window, it is not the colour of grapes;
Nor is it a long stretch of morning field;
Also not a nighttime movie of galaxy film.

Who said red was the colour of deep
Dungeons, not the ground far far above;
Too wrapped up in solemn holiness.
Not me or you or somebody else.

Interesting, I seep through poles there and
Another here, some static phenomenal and
Yellow-like excitement which is bouncing one
Step and two step of our corneas.

There is a gate in the midst of
A small garden, maybe a red or
White.

I went over and met a dwarf who
Claimed its possession of the gate,

This is my gate and area, what are
You human in this sacred forest?

What mushroom! What leaf!
What another bird!

Birds fly to the west and I am following,
Jogging turns into a short run and my feet
Find themselves on some white thing.

Fluffy and wet, in truth! This is actually
A cloud.

Crystals climb on to me, from their silky nests

And then I turn to walk north

I am sitting in a black, hard plastic
Chair which has a leg and one more
And fire in its heart. And then the grass
Was screeching at the top of their lungs
For the witches spell had put the flame
Out. Plums were hanging on the branches of
Old Sir Willow but they dropped and drooped.
Who? Let’s take a journey down the rabbit
Hole, no, the goblin and it’s neighbouring
Hobbit. We go down or north but yes, it is
Going towards the smell of fading emerald
Crystals and Water and Teacups. One more
Tourist spot with a flag on it, which I’m really
Looking forward to - do you know the small
Spirits which sing in silent pitches and do you
Hear them hiding inside the mint leaves?

Sometimes you need this thing called
Confidence, but it is hard to grasp
Like the slippery edge of the rice
******* packaging Summer ate
Yesterday. So to stand up in this
World and pour out enough courage
To hold a position next to everything
Else.

Then pick flowers and clip them on to
Your front pocket and make a grass hat
For yourself and receive a bouquet of
Tree roots to hold in your left hand.

But first you should stand up.
And then decorate yourself and look
Back at you.

A big whiteboard fills you, me and space.
We hover around with markers in our hands
And squeeze courage to make lines on the
Plane. How heavy the marker is and how
Dusty the eraser is. How large the board is
And how stationary I am, in that one corner.