The Place

A specific place, somewhere in the threads of time

It’s always that time, it’s always that time.

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere

A box in your head, a space in your bed.

A sound in the sphere, a howling soar.

A place to hold onto, for solace for grief.

For a fleeting moment, three seconds of rapture.

Played over and over again.

The child never leaves The Place.

In fear or in love, he’s always there.

Lurking in the shadows, and basking in the light.

For the clock without hands spins time.

Rewinding, in fast-forward, stopped, played.

The endless Saturn spreads throughout

a lucid blue and pallid sunset.

The Place is all ready there…

You’re all ready there.

Staring into a starless universe.

The paleness of an empty canvas

that is your face.

The painter is The Place

putting, doodling, blotching,

splashing, scratching

whatever it wants onto the canvas.

A swatch of red, yellow, blue.

A gradient of rainbow,

graveyard black and gray

spread onto the space of the canvas.

The Place.

A specific place,

somewhere in the threads of time.

It’s always that time

It’s always that time

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.