Sitting In A Yellow and Red Room

Sitting in a yellow and red room, the ceiling is white with stubble.  Floor frayed gray.  This room has been assigned to the front corner of the house, slanted walls.  Littering the floor lays the various and the precarious, but without haste, I continue to examine.  The rubbish eclipses the bed and the desk.  There is a sturdy wooden stool standing with me sitting ontop, erect, enacting a lighthouse scan of it all.  The floor is close, but not close enough; my feet barely graze the carpet hairs.  A spot on the floor, free of it all.  I reestablish my gaze upon my perch as I allow for all distal projections to escape me, refusing to let them slither through my jugular.   The thinking mind vacations with the heart as I stumble about the remainder of the room, I glance through the square metre window.  Holes in the screen.

I stand easily to my feet, free of it all; but encircled by the petulent scrawls, I grow weary of what's to come.  Jagged corners and confusing scraps, I wish for the end of it all.  The tumors of thought trickle through, unfleeting anxiety.  I step a harsh step, soaring bloated blood to my blinded head; carpet hairs rise a brazen.  She exudes the silhouette so familiar, there's no question of her intent; but I ask anyway.  I return to my perch in a yellow and red room, ceiling white with stubble; waiting for something different.