Pick your way through the
Strange shapes
That constitute your consciousness:
The scattered papers in the crystal orb that is your right eye,
The pitted roads,
The ruinous stream of
Could-haves and should-haves
The plastic flowers in the sunless garden,
The house with the barred windows
And broken doors,
The animals sleeping in the undergrowth
(Dreaming of deadlines and ***** coffee cups),
The painted seas,
The polished cobblestones,
The particoloured scraps of cloth that are
Actually emotions,
The other people-luminescent, immobile-;
The old promises scrawled on misted mirrors.

Weave your way through it,
And Wonder,
And be glad,
And then,
Gather the papers, follow the roads,
Cross the stream, pick the flowers,
Look through the windows with an old torch,
Fix the doors,
Wake the animals,
Swim the seas, count the cobbles,
Pin the scraps of emotion to your collar,
Shine the crystals, and last of all,
Keep the promises.

And perhaps you won’t be that bored any more.