Workings of my head

 

Step inside the workings of my head.

The recesses of the mind. Please be

aware in this playground

normal rules may not apply,

and that what you find, may

not always be as it appears.

See that cake over there?

It's a lie told to me in another life.

A portal unto another time.

 

The memory holes in the ground

will suck you up before throwing you down.

Staircases lead to nowhere, or back here,

an Escher merry-go-round of ups and downs,

complete with warping disconnected floorboards.

Abstract geometry painted

in dream colour chalk waterfalls.

 

Things are odd, even the numbers

are all jumbled. Over by the far wall,

memories are embedded, like alien phone

numbers, no longer connected,

no one left to call.

Stumbled moments of mumbled words,

replay over and over. Like answer phone

messages to nobody at all.

 

In that corner, fumbled reminders of love,

some names buried, dug up and buried again.

A few dates, a cabinet of heartfelt kisses,

and a shelf of lost wishes plucked from the stars.

 

Whatever you do, I ask you,

do not take that path over there,

down past the signs of past accomplishment.

Reality went a bit askew, and

it is still repairing itself piece by piece.

See, this place makes little sense,

it's a maze of nonsense. Amazed

it still stands if I'm being honest.

 

Over on the book-lined wall, I keep

my pain and the charts of all

the weight I carry in my heart.

Upon the table with the crooked legs,

an open book, filled with untold knowledge.

Only the handwriting is unreadable,

so the ledger is pretty much garbage.

 

Listen closely and you may hear

old emotions playing in the airwaves,

long-forgotten song lyrics of every

love heart caught and sewn

into the fabric of time. Every smile sought,

and every smile that sought mine.

Every tear wrung out in a chiming chorus.

 

In the room to the left you will find walls,

many walls. Built to withstand

any incoming emotional trauma.

 

Down beside the fireplace

my cat of inspiration sits meowing,

pleading with me to dig into the forest

gathering sunlight outside my window.

And the birdsong calls the dawn's awakening,

as the condensation from my tea of harmony

mists the windows.