The corridor of happiness

Once all the candy was gone, the room fell silent
I have been travelling the universe for millennia,
For endless cycles of empathy and entropy,
To find a corridor of happiness,
That same, coloured glass, moss lined, wind ravaged corridor.

When i arrive, at its red door i cannot tell if i feel exuberant or exhausted, i sense a drowsy numbness, a cloying fatigue on my back and tendril of fear wrapping itself on my brain.

I am at the corridor of happiness and there is only a giant, inscrutable silence,
except for the sound of exultant voices, wrathful voices, voices of sorrow and tenderness, voices of dissonance and hate, plaintive wailing and long, garrulous laughter,
Voices, like coloured muslin floating on the wind in the corridor.

Charred leaves and left behind paraphernalia litter its floor,
I walk through the junk and feel a thousand murmurs follow me,
They seem,familiar, yet oddly breathing an oily, liquid darkness, an intangible death kiss to their lilt,
They seem like you.

I see the corridor leads nowhere exactly, just a bend in time, a wormhole to embrace old molten lights and to caress the essence of blurred sparkles and rising scintilla in the foreground, a bent double, tunnel of time, rolling between the lived and the imagined, between universes and carnivals,between the amber shadow of dead love and the cold grey sky of a funeral, a stitch in time, a corridor of junk and whispers, dipped in wine, and enmeshed with dreams, a corridor of happiness.

The windows bang in the adjoining rooms, crank, crash and clang,
There are people in the windows asking for things, crying, begging and singing, the people who were here once and are waiting to come again,
I want to hold their lined palms and bring them under the coloured silhouette and see the blue oceans and floating homes in their eyes,
But i cannot.

There are corpses in the other rooms, sleeping underneath the mountains of habit and need, want, will, flesh, sweat, blood, and blue veins,
I speak with them, and they only smile incessantly.

The corridor is as bright as dawn and as sepulchral as twilight, as drowned in futility as its walls are glistening with fecundity,

I leave the corridor and unzip time again, to get back to my coffee and newspaper.
The corridor stays as a glow-worm at the bottom of my spine, sleeping like my still-born child.

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