I had assumed we'd all picked our separate corners

and that was where we'd spend our time,

but it turns out there's a whole world to be seen

when you turn around.

And I never even noticed.

It seems daft, now. Now I know those long hours

that held hands to form years could have belonged to me,

rather than the corner. Minutes would tick and I'd form a blind contour,

following cracks and chips of paint with my fingers and eyes.

I thought if I scratched at them hard enough, I'd eventually get through to

wherever it was I wanted to go.

But two hands worth of bloody fingernails didn't earn me

what simply turning around would have.

An escape? I don't know that it would have been, to me.

I feel I would have taken one glance at that open rolling picture

and found a vicious fear had seized me, and that

I would have never opened my eyes again.

For all the words I have found to describe what it is I'm looking for,

I have found more numerous still those that would tell you why I have not

run to go and find it.