Create the day, and erase; release the mind’s fallacies,
events holding you, that aren’t otherwise real.
A chair in the corner, a book moved on the bookcase,
evidence of someone paying attention to the outside.
This house holds in the heat, the writing room
cold enough for work.
The dark mornings disorient, stumbling to work down dark roads;
the owl doesn’t know it is daylight – hoots nocturnally in the tree.
I wake up to duty, to feed the cats; I stay awake,
get ready to tread off in my good clothes and stay inside all day.
The left hand has never met the right one,
and doesn’t know it is doing anything.
I question how I spend eight hours of my day –
growing or drowning, learning or head-splitting?
The extroverted world makes me go inwards;
everyone plugged into each other – no space for a silent thought.
A blank wall, blank screen, black night; a bright mind,
a chance for something to happen.Days dying.
They all go with no ticket,
no test, no shiny diploma - they pass through.