The mouth of a hot cave blows

hot air from its belly into the stark

Room. Ice breath roars at the picture

Window. Tears flow. Eyes mist as I

Nuzzle down the carpet with my elbows.

Singing. Singing my tune. With red felt pen into the paper room, I sing of the sky and of the moon and of daybreak glow as the fire-breathing gloom gets into my room.

Wet tears, cold glass, white snow, fire in my room. I am to be shot for being covered in snot and glue. Taken outside. Taken from my room.

Seasons come and seasons glow orange and blue. songs come and blow. I am not me in my room so I go below where people bellow only to be told go to your room

I do what I am told. And plan my revenge. And like a loon, I howl at the moon until I am caught red-handed punished banished to my room.

Then it is time to go to another’s tune and in flew a bird to my room. A singing robin redbreast I shall never forget that tune of sunlight and sunset and red fire crying shame and redemption before it flew away.

So now it is still the same with bellowing heat mushroom diet and dark light. With a red felt pen, I sing into the night heavenward along inside the river of light.


Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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