I didn’t wake up today in my bed,
or in my room, or even in my house.
It looks like my bed, I’ll give it that
and a glass of water, suspiciously
like the one I set out, sits next to me.
But it’s not the same. This bed is different,
it’s coloured the same, patterned identically.
It even has that annoying tear
that just keeps on catching.
But it’s all different, so different.
The air of other influence is about.
There’s something here that,
I’m sure, would never be my space.
The air is very different. It tastes…
identical, and looks very similar.
But it has a quality, a unique way
of shining on unfamiliar thoughts.
The same is true of the garden.
Cucumbers, very much like mine,
are limply trying to grow outside.
But they know different stories.
The blades of grass are whispering
different secrets. While mine are
dull, and quiet creatures. These
suffer from too much dramatic tension.
Oh look, this house has a neighbour.
He looks a little like mine, I suppose.
But just look in his eyes, he
knows something. My neighbour doesn’t.
It’s the sun too, everything is changed.
My sun was passive in my doings,
but this one seems all too happy
to get involved where it isn’t wanted.
Look at that smug fire, illuminating
this new place too early.
As light breaks unearthly tension,
the silence leaves. Presences vanish.
What a dull day this shall be.