Coming Through

You get used to being here. Small stains mark where you bruised the house with gate-crashing day-dreams you can see them transpiring through wood and brick through the dry walls and the worn carpets. It’s a kind of habituation It’s a kind of a life and you walk in it, over it and through it with closed and open eyes. What you see or don’t see it’s still all there coming through from the past. The future also comes through, tomorrow has already painted your next steps, your hand prints, they are all in place waiting to be nailed down. You can see millions of cells being cast down upon the floor, the brush leaning against the wall that you will use to keep one day ahead so you can look back and judge for yourself if you also have come through.