The Warehouse
The Warehouse
Written by Matthew Spence
I have lost my watch, and any sense of time,I feel the lonely drip marking seconds
Then waste a whole minute counting sixty,
So don’t blame me if I am late.
I exist, live within my steel. Notice
I am a book, and refuse to make sense,
Though I have come to love the number four
And the exotic names which surround it.
I grow rust and bleed sludge, but still I wait
Breath carbon monoxide,
Summer house relics feed me sweet solvents
That take my mind back to another place.
I feel so drawn to such a strange concept,
That the depths of the sea may wash through my walls
And the pounding music that I love
Could stop, but still I will wait here for you.
The knowledge of impossibilities
Is a cruel trick you learn from childhood,
So you probably think I can’t move,
And If I tell the truth, you’re probably right
Laugh at me all you like. You have the choice,
While the people of the world run, and duck,
and hide and seek some cheap goal I will stand
Here still aware that patience is a gift
And that I was designed to stand still. If
Its believed that trees have eyes, and walls ears,
Then why not consider me, an inanimate
object, who sees and feels and loves and lives.
And if that sounds to your taste, then please stand
And talk with me, in this blank industrial
space. For the one I love is on her way
And i’m only a warehouse, at the end of the day.