The Corridor

I can still hear the echoes
of footsteps long since trodden
How much forgotten leather
has this floor devoured?

How many would-be heroes
unknowing zeros have scoured
these high-walled halls
calling out for something
long lost to them?

I am unconscious again
Pacing, pacing
Invasive, self-effacing confessions
in the basement of a house
with a south-facing garden

Hardened eyes peer from the gloom
In a room containing nought but I
who once thought the sky
a mile high, divinely inspired
trick of the eye
Knowing now, deep inside
that a man and his mind
can hide in the most childish of lies

Snap shot
Freeze frame framed
and ingrained on the walls
of a brain moving swiftly ever onward

Pacing, pacing
Embracing the chase
Encased by racing wind
further facing time
and space in memories

Never pleased standing still
No sculptor of iron will
could instill whimsical wilful thrill
of emotion into cold, emotionless stone

Still, alone in corridor’s lonely embrace
Emaciated. Skin and bone
Ever pacing, pacing, pacing
Tracing ways in which to
replace old pictures, old frames
with a trace of something
I can call my own

When I need time
When I need space
Return to this place
and pace, pace, pace

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