In The Corridors Of The Mind

I walk the corridors in my mind

wandering just what may be that I may find

hidden among the debris there

just fallen, tumbled, but laid bare.

Or what lays hid behind the tall dark door

of debris strewn will I find more?

But no – beyond the statues hewn

and busts and fragments fallen strewn –

the room has no ceiling and – I say –

lies not empty, but filled with hay!

And there behind a large hay bale

so dark in contrast one can’t fail

so see it shining in its own dark way

a spinning wheel amongst the hay.

And what is this fine golden thread

strewn round the room of hay instead?

Just who might do the spinning in

the dark each night – Rumpelstiltskin?

But while he works what debt be paid

for these riches magic made?


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