My heart beats
like handprints on the wall
never reaching anywhere
only a vague shadow of childhood


I’ve turned the pages
too blank to write, to draw, to pen upon
I think the ink is just a little too dry

When the morning sunlight’s through the blinds
and in my eyes
sitting at the desk
looking past the portraits of forgotten artists
so to speak

I think of James Joyce and I say

I’m turning through the pages
they’re too blank to write
but I’ve never felt they had any value in being blank

Until mid-morning
ten o’clock and I’m wide awake
ready to sip the tea I brewed an hour ago

Painting on the walls said it all
he said