a rainy sunday morning is to me
the feeling of a white dove
feeling the dew on the bluebell an early morning in the fall
the serenity casts a shadow over me
breathes me in, until I’m so small, so very small,
that the universe forgets me, and I am free to dwell in its halls,
its so very empty halls
that I forget where I am, and who I am,
and I am lost in the emptiness of its foggy halls,
and become but a shadow on the wall of the hall
where other people pass and don’t look left nor right but straight ahead
they walk, and walk, and walk, and sometimes look back,
an empty hall is scary, and a serial killer might be lurking in the shadows,
but here, in this hall, I am the shadows, and the shadows are me,
and it isn’t the place for a monster to be.
dear strangers, look straight ahead, and don’t look at the wall,
I am there and I don’t want anyone to see me,
not even you, or you, because I know you want to see me fall.
I might fall, deeper, and deeper, and deeper,
than you ever thought, than you ever wished for me to fall,
but I will only look up, and stare at the shadow on the wall,
and the shadow will suck me in and take me back to the gloomy hall,
where I am one and all, and nothing stands in my way,
except the strangers who sometimes look left, or right,
not straight ahead. Dear strangers, please,
ignore the wall.
I don't want to fall.
(I want to be the dew on the bluebell an early morning in the fall)