Salt slides in the grooves mending the slices of hardwood.
Over top, varnish drips in vacant spots covering plots of brown knots and railway lines.
No trains come in or out of the station.
Emptiness reigns and hangs low like fog in a wood near the ocean.
Feels like home to a handyman - crisp, yet gritty, clean yet grainy.
Wood swirls riding between strict and parallel lines and find no angles and no way to turn,
Nowhere to hide, no corners in either direction,
Nothing but a lost way, a lack of consciousness whose seams have torn,
A nothingness like no something has even felt.
A finger glides along the edges hooking slivers of brown and gold seeking harsher pain
And iron blood tasting so metallic, turning to brown rust inside steely mousetraps on site.
Sensing blood, mice scurry along the walls' edge, not needing to look,
Just following the lines along well-travelled, walls,
A rodent's habit,
A nocturnal creature,
A creature of habit,
He fears leaving his walls.
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