Somewhere.

"Let's go to that place,
where snow forever falls
and the flowers on the trees
are stark red against the pale sky.
Let's go where you can lie down and sleep,
leaving the world to its own doings,
and you to your dreams.
There is a brick wall here,
and a bathtub that never fills.
There is a clock on the wall
stuck in between 10:24
and a time that does not exist--
There are red balloons that never fall,
nor ever rise to the limited sky.
The blankets on the bed are pink,
woven by the hands of those who love you
but you have never seen.
Your lips are always stained by the fruits
from the trees,
and the clothes are light, not only in color
but also in weight.
There is a wall lined with books,
but if you were to open one,
you would find nothing inside the crumbling pages--
however you would smile with fondness at
the story offered by the faded ink.
You would place the book back, where there is shall
crumble
for the rest of eternity.
Dust lies about here,
little hands leave marks all over everything.
You would then of course smile at all their smiling
little faces
and long for children of your own,
although you are but a ghost.
There are pictures and painting upon these walls;
the pictures of people,
the paintings of things--
both lined in the dullest gold
this non-world has to offer.
The mirrors on the walls
reflect nothing
but what you wish to see.
These mirrors are lined up in the halls,
opposite each other,
so they might see who is the first to blink.
Every room has a colored door,
and every color its own sound,
likes bells at a wedding,
or just before death.

There is a hum behind your heartbeats,
rising from anticipation,
and your feet touch wooden floors,
deep cherry red.
This place is the opposite of anything,
but is greater than nothing.
There are X's upon the surfaces
deemed inappropriate for use--
beautiful,
deep green like the sea--blue
surfaces
that you dare to long to touch.
Feathers lie in corners,
and you can't decide whether they are from pillows
or wings.
There are multi-colored stones scattered about the shore,
and the tiger's eye stares wearily,
from the shade.
There is a garden here,
where strawberries grow on trees
and cherries grow on bushes,
where the leaves or a lighter pink
on both plants.
There is a fountain in the middle of this garden,
and the waters there are black.
You lean in for a drink,
and taste iron.
You lean back and gaze at the moon,
an orange-red entity, angry at the sun
who was burned by a dream
and shall never rise again.
You sigh, lay back,
and go to sleep.

~I feel this could go on forever, but I think it best to end it now.