I look down from the ceiling at my bed . . . which is on top? My ass or my head?
An unlikely disorientation shadows me,
from deep slumber I awake.
Overwhelming me like a shivering quake.
Could this be?
Distant clanging and banging followed the wafting breakfast temptation.
A frost-bitten spine drives me to the scene,
footsteps follow a sickening scream.
Deep within it attacks the sensation.
Colours flow towards the door,
across the ceiling or was it the floor,
out into a distance that welcomed it all.
My bones rattled as I saw a face.
Surely mistaken was the time or place,
God must have forsaken that colourful house.
No longer entered by man or mouse.
How on earth could this be?
Pictures strewn across the floor,
justice rings through the house.
He was not a man, but a tiny little mouse.
