I bought a notebook which I won’t use.
But there’s something reassuring there
In the alluring bare pages
Pregnant with prose and plans
For changes - sweeping and lasting
And questions asked in low hushed tones;
Can I be those things?
Will those things be what those things promise to be?
Or on this dishonest dream have I hung my hat?
I don’t really wear hats so I can afford to lose one I suppose.
You know, it’s funny what grows
In caves starved of natural light:
Creatures fashioned by darkness and cruel delights.
Like words rationed hearts write to rot
In the shadowless sheets
Shone on once by our hand
And by Time’s hand, forgot.
Perhaps. Maybe. Let the hands of Time be.
"In caves starved of natural light"
Is this how you describe your bedroom, Mr. Glass?
I think your notebook would appreciate being put to use.