what's up

lying down on the tiled floor
staring at the ceiling
so imperfectly white
the lines and shadows
millions of imaginary paths

nothing exists anymore
only the sound of the air
inhaled and exhaled
deeply, slowly

and a song
soft guitar playing
nice breathy voice
sweet words to rest the mind
and warm up the soul

the mess around
is representative of this life
vain efforts to keep
some things alive
not much reward, though

blinding light
shelter from the dark
bad thoughts knocking
staring at the ceiling
i am lost here

but i feel safe...

[photo: my ceiling, March 15,2006]