Mismatched SoCs: The Walls are White

. The Walls are White
. They’re Stained by the Light
It comes dripping down from the ceiling above,
My pooling eyes are soaking it all in
my feet are fading
sinking in the linoleum sea
the currents are running away with me
the frothy sea brine would feel quite fine
if it wasn’t so sharp
if it wasn’t so dark
if it wasn’t so hard to hold onto the line
with the waves crashing hard and the salt in your throat
with submerged coral slashing the pages you wrote
you’re screaming and thrashing but you’ve lost all hope
Be wary of tables:
Marked and designed to suit your crime,
They’ll swallow you whole and leave nothing behind
Your skin starts to rip and your bones start to grind
They eat you alive, but I really don’t mind.
It’s the silent weathervane that bothers me.
There’s no wind here.
. The Walls are White,
and the windows are weathervanes.
Here, the mirrors learn from your hair.
Does it run down your face? Do you drink it? It tastes like soup.
The final moments of a blood-stained memory
Link arms with the innocence of childhood
Everything is lost now.
Lost, lost, lost
in the white of the White Walls
Can you remember the White Walls too?
Where they came from?
The depths of hell hold the key to your cell.
We all know hell has White Walls
A pretty face with warts on the heart
It knows how to live and play out its part
And never stops singing, ringing, stinging,
Bats screeching and preaching,
The gentle sloth learns HTML programming
And becomes a ferocious tiger
With pearly white fangs
And pearly White Walls.
The tree’s final moments:
A seed planted in the blood-stained ground
Muddy blood,
Bloody mud,
A black thorned castle grows from the Earth.
His curved blade flashes.
The silver edge shimmers like mist.
A cloud of oil;
Oil as black as the blackest night
and the darkest wish.
The Tree’s final moments,
my final memories,
bloody ones.
Death
has White Walls, too.
Can you finally see?
The White Walls are closing in
crushing the light
I
can still breathe
but
the air .escapes
slipping through the cracks
I am
trapped
here with the White Walls
and the most free
I could wish to be
swimming outside
in the flowers and filth
the snow
and the shards of glass
a hay in a needlestack
holding hands
with the clock on the wall
. The Walls are White.
. The Walls are