I am a book of thousand lies
And one truth…
The truth of a capricious illusion.
Sometimes I pick the colours of my room;
Sometimes the colours pick me.
Once this room was a haunted house
For a little red riding hood;
Now that the werewolf is out,
I keep myself padlocked in the silence
Of my cellar.
I dreamt of dolphins and mermaids,
And wrote about nonexistent words.
But down my story someone has
Found the key to my attic,
And silence has finally started to speak.
Yesterday I had found blood,
Today my skull has a psychedelic painting.
And I wonder,
Why is it hard to read others’ books
When you are writing your own.
I did write once…
With blank magical pages.
Why do I see “just” dwarves in the
Blanket of my snow white story?
I am trying to figure it out,
Tell me if you do…
My address is written on the back
Of your skull.