Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 06/03/15

Too late again. Finally switched off for the night. FIFA 15 for 3 hours followed Captain America, washed down with John Smith’s. Bliss.

Here is a poem. This is the second part in another serialised poem separate from the PM’s monologue.

Part Two (b)

The once-proud-oak doors

of my mind palace swing open,

muttering under the strain of serving their

purpose. I step through into

a cream corridor. Cream

walls, carpets of cream,

cream skirting boards coloured cream.

Cream.

Despite the carpeted floors,

the rubber soles of my trainers

echo against every surface.

Every ten feet or so there hangs

a pine picture frame on the wall.

There seem to be faces in the paintings

but their familiarity is just out of

reach. I keep walking past each one

towards the end of the corridor.

I must have taken 100 steps

yet am no closer.

At the end of the corridor is a chair.

On the chair sits a can of Dr Pepper.

Ice cold. I can hear the condensation

edge down the can, a torrent of noise

flooding the corridor.

I start to run, blink twice and I am there,

with the beverage in my hand. The first way point

in my mind palace.

I know what this is in my hand yet, again,

there is something unrecognisable about it.

 

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