What is this place?
Dirty grey tiles.
Running thick with caked oxide.
Cracks and splits under your fingernails.
The failing lights sing an unfamiliar song.
The bubbling grates beneath
the hum of empty in my head.
The familiar cool of ceramic against my cheek and ribs.
Curled in that fragile unfed ball.
Unclean. Unloved.
Everything it touches turns dark.
Follow the song,
the sway of delapidation.
The dust in the blank sunlight.
No worlds outside to conquer.
Wander til rusty water pelts from overhead.
Cleansed in gathering silt.
Makes me yearn for first room.
At least there I had a button to chase.
Barefeet on bleached pages.
All record of here erased,
any chance of suggestion or distraction removed.
Can you eat paper?
Half the flavor. Twice as filling.
I'd swear to the existence of circles
cycles
loops
I'd swear I passed that dead office plant.
if this place had corners
or for that matter
doors that were still on hinges.
I'd swear that dead office plant is mocking me.
and before you know it
you're back in room one
chasing a plink clack clattering button.
I'd talk to it,
but my throat's too dry.
And, what exactly would I have to say?
Count the hard parts in the dirt.
Watch the blank sun fade.