A thought ;
What I think is not a series of words, but more a collection of objects.
Like a bedroom behind my eyes
There’s a yellow moonbeam slit on the floor
Of a space filled with dark whiskey memories
and burgundy carpet.

The curtains billow with screams of the populous.
Passing judgment
On the wallpaper.
And the sex stains
Maybe even the cigarette burns in the bed sheets.

And there are yellowing doilies, with inscribed names of lovers
And boxes of photographs long since forgotten.

The wall hangings whisper that their glass is the clearest
And so the faces of family behind them have to be cherished.

A glass bowl of loose thread
That lies by my bed
Is labeled “the tales that I’ve told”.