Who am I?
My name fell through the floor somewhere.
It slipped between the carpet threads
And hid inside a chair.
Where am I?
The walls are breathing quietly.
The ceiling melts to purple rain
And drips down over me.
Why am I here?
The question floats like bubbles do,
They wobble through a violet sky
And pop before they’re true.
What’s the point?
A clock is laughing on the shelf.
Its hands are spinning made of smoke
And pointing at themselves.
I don’t care…
The carpet hums a sleepy tune,
A thousand tiny silver ants
Are marching past the moon.
Who am I?
The mirror doesn’t seem to know.
It shows a face of liquid light
That flickers soft and slow.
Where am I?
A teacup sails across the room,
It leaves a trail of lemon stars
That blossom into bloom.
Why am I here?
The question bends like rubber bands,
It twirls around a spinning sun
And falls into my hands.
What’s the point?
The point dissolves like sugar cubes
Inside a lake of purple milk
Where paper swans all cruise.
I don’t care…
The feeling drifts like lazy smoke,
An empty boat on quiet seas
That rocks but never spoke.
Who am I?
A whisper in a violet shell.
A drifting leaf of silver dust
That cannot really tell.
Where am I?
Inside a bubble made of sound,
Where colours hum like sleepy bees
And float above the ground.
Why am I here?
Perhaps to watch the colours spin,
Or listen while the moonlight hums
A song beneath the skin.
What’s the point?
The point is soft, the point is thin,
It melts away like candle wax
Before it can begin.
I don’t care…
The purple light is everywhere.
It wraps around the quiet mind
Like ribbons in the air.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Why am I here tonight?
The violet room just smiles and says
“It’s only light.” 🌙✨
