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Silverthorn Feb 2018
This is the color of my walls at eight am
a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet.
“Just say they’re yellow,” I am told.
Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.

This is the color of my walls at midnight
a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes.
“They’re not red,” I am told, again.
How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.

This is the color of my walls at eleven am
a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers.
“No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told.
I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.

This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm
just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving.
“The walls are dead,” I am told.
But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.

This is the color of my walls at this time
maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing
“Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told.
Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.

— The End —