Praying to St Roof

The ceiling was blue.

That’s how I saw it.

That’s how I remember it.

Chained to a chair

and immune to pain.

That’s how I saw it.

The ceiling was blue.

And it was so,

despite the doctor drilling

roughly in my artificially

dead vocal apparatus.

The ceiling was blue,

and the doctor was drilling,

what was supposed to change

the world in front of my eyes.

But the ceiling was blue

because that’s how I saw it.

But maybe it wasn’t blue?

Maybe it was yellow,

and only my tired hope

wants me to see the colour of the sky

in places banned from having one.

To this day, I cannot resit

and when I look up, and they say:

the roof is in the colour of blood

or wood, I say nothing because

I know. The ceiling is blue.