In this tiny painted room Everything is large All these things are clamouring To be the one in charge The thing that matters most of all Wins the accolade Lap of honour round the room Breather in the shade From these tiny painted walls Choose your point of view All these angles know their place Everything is true Pages give at the edges to the Thumb that flips the corner, and the Words appear and disappear and the Eye melts over the moment when the Night is bleak and heavy with trouble A blade of grass outside is easing Through the earth and twisting forth And silent into the day What are fingers for, if not for Searching, counting playing Snap and Holding onto something, for Holding onto something? What are Fingers for, if not for searching, Counting, playing Snap and Holding onto something till you’re Good to let it go? Heads are swithering, tails considering Swaying in the wind And tilting like italics into a Future that you never know Time is out of order Days are folded like a fan and you're Holding onto something till you’re Good to let it go In this tiny painted room Everything is large All these things are clamouring To be the one in charge
Tiny Painted Room
A peek inside a busy brain forever turning things over and trying to find solutions to problems which might not even exist. Written after a conversation with my friend Mike Rawlins, so I dedicate it to him.