There's a yellow sheet I see creases imperfect 

Although I'm not perfect 

The creases are a defect 

 

It's a continuous cycle of the creases being straightened

Rather relocated and it's making me restless agitated 

 

To tame one's impulses I zone into a trance.. I choose one crease and it's almost as if I'm shrinking...

The fold in the blanket becomes a corner 

I hear voices a town Cryer 

"Any old iron "

"Fish for sale get it while it's fresh" I hear 

A sound of bells from a church is near 

 

Coughing and crying 

Selling and buying 

Early morning Market 

Early days market 

Way before my time 

Time travelling back many decades previous 

It feels familiar 

The bitter cold air is dirty but somehow feels cleaner 

Horses and carts no cars 

Begging children being brushed away almost as inconvenient as the dirt being swept 

Barely able to walk 

Too small to talk 

Small enough to steal 

Survival 

Like animals scouring the floors

Scraps and crumbs Next meal

Battle 

Only the well are the wealthy 

Ill are coinless poorpers Unhealthy 

Age 6 Spectator invisible it seems 

One lady makes eye contact 

Like I'm a ghost she screams 

Back to present times it is 

The creased blanket mess 

Does everybody travel through time? Or is this a gift that I possess?