the writer sculpts his mind-world with paper splashed in ink
he paints his spirit’s trail from front door, to chair, to sink.
wide-eyed, the reader follows – hypnotised and blind,
seduced and sucked by words on white, some gentle – some unkind.
he hears an easing voice through the hollows of his head,
led down unfamiliar corridors, and laid in unfamiliar bed
he treads unfriendly stairs, looks through windows once unknown
onto other-worldly gardens is his helpless mind’s eye thrown
as the brittle pages flicker to the story’s tender end
he grows to know the rooms and halls as if they were his friend.
then consciousness strikes – his world of words he pours outside
trembling, he tells his neighbour with a stupid beaming pride
he beckons, ’come and see! come and see the land i know!’
yet on entering the house – he finds nothing left to show.
a haze of nothingness greets him at the door,
a blank expanse of space where a staircase was before.
rooms and halls and windows wasted to oblivion,
clouds of blank replace a house that once was coloured in.
with disappointed eyes he watches nothing be
seen through different eyes, it escapes from unity.