Sometimes I would drift off into those autonomous
tropical lands,
Where happiness would turn to pain,
Then diseased into luxuriant faces of lovers.
What constituted a normal life may even
appear.
I would be married, with a family,
Connected and reasonable.
Even there,
In those most lifelike of illusions
I would be waiting for the cracking,
For the whole pane of glass to shatter to the
ground.
On waking, a melancholy would enshroud
me.
My silence would be mute.
I have reorganized time into units
Ten units to a cycle,
1 to 10
and back again.
The units begin when the night ends and ends
when the night begins.
With all the Gods wiped from the horizon,
In here, I drift with uncertain rationality.
In here it is cold.
Last day of the cycle in this labyrinth of
shadows and creaking doors.
And breathing,
My own breath was amplified in here,
Under my mask, especially.
In and out,
In and out as my feet stepped down and up.
Up and down.
This walking,
The audible and continual movement was my
therapy.
It kept me objectified within these walls.
It was the building looking inward
Performing these reparatory tasks,
Inside.
In here, my individuation,
My thingness permeated.
I probably made these dwellings sick.
Down Corridor One, Door One check rattle
tick.
Peering, but Nothing is out there this morning.
I squinted up into the grey-glow.
Nothing but microbes floating in my eyes.
I went on my way,
Paused in the empty canteen and listened
A buzz of electricity.
Down Corridor Two, Door Two,
Rattle.
The view here is a courtyard.
Kids would hoof the ball against the walls,
Shout and Scream.
I would clear up the glass,
I can almost see them.
I can almost see me.
I snap out of my pointless dwelling and carry
along the way.
Corridor Three.
On the adjacent side were the Humanities
rooms
where pity and hypocrisy were taught in
equal measure.
At the end of Corridor Three, we reach door
three,
Check, tick, peer.
