He opened the doors to his face.
The hinges creaked.

He peered out.

The greens of things was bright.
Oranges and blues tangled the sky.
Crafty sighs stole across the surface,
Stealing scents and twisting them
Into a daring and reckless collage.

He thought it would be nice
To hang smells on his walls.
Ravishing smells.
He wouldn't mind a bit of the ocean
Or a few avocados mounted above his bed.

He yawned.

He dully watched as a group of triangles
And giggling squares philandered down the street.
Circles lit across the ground and
Weird shapes hiccuped in the air.
An obtuse blade of grass bent in the wind.

He turned around.

His eyes caught his attention.
He curiously peered into them.
They were circles, too.
He wished his eyes were stars.
He wished his breath was an
Elysian comet, leaving in
His wake a trail of glittering dust.

He shivered and scowled.

His brain cringed at the sudden coldness.
He saw that the sun was blocked by a house.
Squares always seemed to ruin things.
His feet were tired from keeping his
Body from toppling over.
All of him seemed bored and tired.

So, he turned around.

He closed the doors to his face,
And went back inside.


Garvey said...

it would be so strange to turn around and see ourselves!

what ever happened to that thing you were going to write? something about a psychologist?

emelina said...

dear holly,
you spend far too much time watching chick flicks and listening to romantic music and not nearly enough time reading flannery o'connor or victorian prose.
i'm glad that my life isn't that dramatic, but you did make me laugh. ;)

Anonymous said...

It seems to me that your writing is often critically scrutinized by others for everything but the writing itself.

But then, what do I know?

Stunningly crafted. Good work.