I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 3: The Pocket of my Past

Before this day, before this hour,
is something blinded by light--not dark.

My mind conceives a simple verse
and over and over it plays.

Those flashing lights and gapping mouth is all I find you see.
Along I slip across your walls.
Alone I do believe.

And once repeat this subtle creak--against this floor you sleep.
As light a step, a breath, I fret--no longer belongs to me.

After this day, after this hour,
is something missing by chance--not fate.

My mind receives this simple verse
past 1 and 6 these days.