Crackling under our feet
As we tred lightly
Over the plain marshland
And I open my eyes
To the cracked paint on the ceiling
Dry, dull, flaking nothingness
And shut them again
Blocking the brick walls
And breaking through the window
Into the late winter sunlight
Face to the sky
A snowflake on my lower lip
Ice melting onto hot skin
Wind scraping past frozen cheeks
That peek exposed beyond the
Thick wooly jacket
Beneath the lifeless eyes
Suddenly breathing colour
Soaking into the crinkles
Seeping through the skull
Strange as it sounds
A whistling
Between branches
And we tred
I'm surrounded
By many a soul struck in awe
At this world
Could it be real?
If only...
I've waited twenty five years
To open my eyes
To paint flaking off the ceiling
Dreaming into boxes
And sinking them into the vast hopeless ocean
Could it be?
Could it ever be?
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