Rhiannon (Camlann)

Lludd and Llyfelys (c.1200–1250)
When three strange plagues descend upon Britain—ghosts stealing sound, an endless shriek, and food vanishing from every table—King Lludd seeks the counsel of his brother Llyfelys. Through riddles and wisdom, they uncover the truth behind the chaos and restore balance to the land. A tale of mystery, brotherhood, and disruption resolved through intellect rather than war.

They silenced speech, rewired sound, and fed us hollow promises. Two rulers play their roles, but one mad voice watches from the cracks—bearing witness to a world losing language, truth, and meaning. “Three Things” is the song of that fool in the square: a manifesto in rhythm, a final fire in the age of static. A warning, a plea, a question you must choose to hear.

Two brothers sit on borrowed thrones,
Heads crowned with fire, hearts made of phones.
The plagues come quiet, then loud, then gone—
But who sees the cracks before the dawn?

They call me mad.
But I remember when the air still hummed with truth.
Now it just flickers.
Whispers.
Gone.

Three things cannot be long hidden: 
the sun, 
the moon, 
and the truth

They came not with guns but with silence first,
Ghosts in wires, dressed like thirst.
Thoughts erased mid-sentence—click—reset.
Now no one questions what they forget.
I watched them steal the words from screens,
Then from mouths, then from dreams.
A language lost, not with blade but blink,
Now even poets forget how to think.
I screamed in alleys. Nobody heard.
I painted warnings in crumbling words.
They called me prophet, called me freak—
But still, they scroll. And never speak.
They said it was safety. Said it was choice.
But I saw the shadow behind the voice.
One world order, smile on the mask,
“Freedom,” they whispered. “Just don’t ask.”

Say what you’re told.
Forget what you knew.
They’ve silenced your questions
Before they reached you.
They came in the night,
Took silence for truth—
Now the only sound
Is what they choose.

The second plague screamed through every street,
But no one moved. Just clenched their teeth.
Sirens stacked on sirens, drones in clouds,
Windows cracked and babies howled.
Was it rage? Was it grief?
Or just feedback from belief?
Every night the shrieking grew,
'Til the only truth was noise-brand-new.
Lludd said, “Broadcast hope.”
Llevelys said, “Silence scope.”
But they both bowed low to the same white throne—
Hands washed clean in algorithm foam.
And I stood beneath the screaming sky,
Whispers melted from my eye,
The sound was not a scream at all—
Just all the things we didn’t call.
“Trust the stream,” they said on air.
So we drowned
With perfect care.

Who writes the script
When no one sees the page?
Who profits most
From panic staged?

Listen to the hum.
Listen to the spin.
They sell you fear
With a plastic grin.
Shriek in your sleep,
Starve in your name.
But trust the hands
That lit the flame.

Then came hunger. But the shelves were full—
Of plastic fruit, and policy bull.
Empty plates dressed up like meals,
They fed us data, numbed our feels.
Farms bought out, the soil sold thin,
The harvest lost beneath the spin.
They said, “It’s fine. There’s apps for that.”
While mothers boiled dreams in vats.
I watched a man eat cardboard slow,
Just to feel his stomach grow.
No riots. No revolt.
Just hands in prayer that no one wrote.
The kings held meetings far from view,
Spoke of hope and markets new.
And still the fool sat in the square,
Feeding birds what wasn’t there.

They took your voice.
They stole your sight.
They fed you ghosts
And called it right.
But I still walk.
And I still write.
And I still burn
Without their light.

You reading this? You still awake?
Or did the static finally take
The part of you that used to dream—
Before the codes and dopamine?
Ask yourself—who benefits
When silence tastes like safety kits?
When food is fake, and thought’s a crime,
And kings recite your lines in time?
I am not your hero here.
I’m just the mirror smeared with fear.

Three things

Second branch of the Mabinogion – Branwen Daughter of Llŷr
Branwen, sister of the giant Bran the Blessed, is given in marriage to the king of Ireland to forge peace between nations. But jealousy and cruelty fester. Betrayed and abused, she sends a starling with a message home. Her brother crosses the sea to rescue her, sparking a brutal war. Only seven survivors remain, and Branwen dies of grief.

She left for light, for freedom, for a life of her own. But beneath paradise was a cage. Taken, trafficked, silenced—but not broken—she becomes a voice for the voiceless. Her brother crosses oceans to find her, and in their shared scars, they rewrite the story. A hymn for the stolen, a flame for the forgotten, and a cry that will not go quiet.

She left with sunlight in her suitcase,
A one-way to somewhere warmer, freer.
The ticket was cheap. The promise was bright.
No one told her how light bends before it breaks.

And the sea watched.
And the stars blinked once.
And a single starling flew the wrong way.

It was meant to be a first breath, not the last.
Out of the valley, the slate, the past.
He said, “Come with us—cheap drinks, gold coast.”
I laughed like I hadn’t been hurt like a ghost.
The air tasted sweet, too sweet, too fast.
We danced till the sun kissed broken glass.
I trusted the girl with the eyes like mine,
Didn’t see the leash beneath the wine.
The club pulsed red, like a vein exposed—
Then the blur, the drag, the door that closed.
I woke with wrists too quiet to scream,
New clothes, no phone, no dream.
I was given a number, not a name.
A room, a bed, a face in a frame.
And every smile became the same:
Lure the next, or take the blame.

Say my name in the language of wings,
Where no chains cling and no sirens sing.
I left with light in both my hands—
But came undone in stranger lands.
And no one knows, and no one tries—
But the starling flies,
The starling flies.

I came back to the slate roofed house,
Boots still wet from offshore routes.
Mum said nothing, eyes gone wide,
Just pointed at the badge outside.
Cops said “vanished,” like she ran.
Like she chose some faceless man.
But her bed was made, her books still stacked—
Her scarf still hanging on the coat rack.
I found the post she never sent,
Told her friends where she went.
An island. Blue. Some ferry’s edge.
No return. No final pledge.
I booked a ticket. Left at night.
Didn’t pack much. Just rage and fight.
If they wouldn’t look, then I would burn
Every dock 'til I made them turn.
I spoke to ghosts with names in code—
Followed feathers down the road.

She speaks in shadows.
I scream in light.
We’re stitched in silence,
but built for fight.
Starling cry, guide me through.
Brother, I’m broken—but not through.

Seven years in a cage of gold,
They broke her name, but not her soul.
A bird made of bone left a sign on the wall—
A trail of flight before the fall.
The door was locked, the world stood by—
But the starling flew,
And I heard her cry.

Time here doesn’t walk, it crawls.
Days blur behind these walls.
Each girl has a story she won’t say,
Each eye’s a scream packed away.
I learned how to breathe without sound,
How to lie still and not be found.
The man said, “Smile, this isn’t hell—
It’s business, girl. Play it well.”
But I held a secret in my skin—
A shape of feathers tucked within.
One night I etched a bird in soap,
A shape we carved back home in hope.
Left it in a mirror’s fog,
A prayer inside the prison smog.
And somehow, somehow it reached the sea—
To him. To us. To the last of me.

I came back wrong.
He held me still.
The house remembered,
The wind was ill.
But light can live
Where death once slept—
And the starling rose
Where sorrow wept.

Even home ain’t clean of the flame.
Peace is quiet—but never the same.
I slept in closets. Walked in loops.
He said “you’re safe”—but I watched the troops
March in my mind when plates would clink,

Starling cry

Culhwch and Olwen (c.1100)
When Culhwch falls in love with Olwen, daughter of the giant Ysbaddaden, he must complete impossible tasks set by her father. With the help of King Arthur and a band of extraordinary companions, he overcomes every challenge. In the end, the giant is slain, and Culhwch claims Olwen's hand—his triumph sealed through persistence and power.

He said it was love. She never had a choice. In a world that still crowns boys for pursuit and silences girls who say no, “Homecoming” tells the story of one night that ended in violence—and the voice that rose to remember. A myth unraveled under gym lights. A eulogy set to beat and breath.

He said it like gospel: She’s the one.
Ylva, white dress, tan lines, clean run.
Everyone knew—it was prophecy.
Golden boy, queen-to-be, perfect symmetry.
The warriors cheered from locker halls,
Bedwyr punched lockers, Kai scaled walls.
He posted a pic: “She doesn’t even know yet.”
Comments blew up like a Vegas roulette.
She smiled once in Biology,
So clearly, it was meant to be.
She wore silence like a dare.
He mistook it for playing fair.
He practiced the ask for a week straight,
Balloons, violins, football cleats, fate.
And when she said yes (cameras clicked),
He didn’t notice her hands stay clenched.
Didn’t hear what she didn’t say—
Didn’t care, it was his day.

They said we’d look good in photos,
But I’m not a frame you can hold.
He came with fire and painted smiles—
I wanted rain. And quiet miles.
I said yes in a borrowed voice—
But I was never the choice.
I was never the choice.

They called me the star, the prize, the girl,
But I just wanted out of this plastic world.
Dad said “You’re lucky, baby. Smile more.”
I smiled ‘til my cheeks turned war.
After school, I’d sit in the stacks—
Poetry and silence in paperback stacks.
I wrote to breathe. I wrote to not drown.
I watched them build me a cardboard crown.
And then—
Ceri.
Hair like dusk, eyes like duskier things,
Wore ash and clay like diamond rings.
Said, “You ever seen a stone Buddha dance?”
I laughed. First time in months, by chance.
Ceri saw me—not the glow.
Not the dad. Not the show.
Just the girl who wanted valleys and sky.
Ceri said, “Stay still long enough, and you'll fly.”

Not all love is conquest.
Not all silence is shyness.
And you—yeah, you listening—
Who told you love was something you earn
with flowers and a crowd?

Maybe you were sold a script.
Maybe it’s time to burn it.

He built a castle with a name he didn’t own.
I watched from windows, cold to the bone.
She danced in shadows, slipped the frame—
A girl with no interest in fame.
He said love, but meant parade.
She said no, but it got delayed.
And somewhere between the gym and sky—
A starling passed, and didn’t reply.

Homecoming: flashbulbs, confetti rain.
Culh wore pride like a bloodstained chain.
His breath was sour, grip too tight—
He said “Let’s go,” but she said “Not tonight.”
The crowd was noise, the gym was thick,
His hand on her waist—too fast, too quick.
She pulled away.
He didn’t let go.
Ceri stepped in, said “She said no.”
Laughter broke—someone filmed the scene.
Culh’s face turned black and mean.
The king unmasked, the myth undone,
And then—

he reached inside his coat and pulled a gun.

Screams. A stampede.
The music died.
Ylva froze.
Ceri moved.
The bullet
flied.

You said love.
But you meant control.
You wanted her silent,
You wanted her whole.
She said no—but the noise grew loud—
And now we kneel,
Underneath the crowd.

The gym’s a shrine, with wilted crowns.
They built a statue. They painted frowns.
They lit candles by her locker gate—
Too little. Too late.
Ylva’s poems live in my coat.
I read them soft, like prayer notes.
They called it tragedy.
I call it truth.
She said no.
And he stole her youth.
They called me strange.
I say I see.
I saw her.
She saw me.
And now I speak.
Because I must.
The world forgot her.
But I won’t let it rust.

Homecoming

Third branch of the Mabinogion – Manawydan Son of Llŷr
After the fall of Bran, Manawydan returns home only to find his land enchanted—empty, desolate, cursed. With patience and wisdom, not sword nor rage, he outwits the spell's hold, restores the realm, and finds purpose in quiet resilience. A tale of strange magic, restoration, and quiet strength.

In a world burning from within, a boy becomes father to a child not his own—raising her through war, silence, and collapsing memory. When the future demands sacrifice, he leaves his body behind to become the light that guides her path. A tale of found family, digital transcendence, and the love that outlives even death. He doesn’t save the world. He gives her the tools to build a new one.

In the ash of the old world, where satellites blinked like dying stars, and mothers were names etched in signal loss, 
a boy ran—not from war, but toward a spark. 
He carried no past, only code and breath, and the heartbeat of a girl too small to understand the silence. 
From ash he forged a bond no time can sever, a chain of light that will hold them forever.

Riding the light waves, dancing in the sky. Captains orders. Are we must not cry

Sirens like wolves through dust-thick skies, boots on concrete, silence and lies. He ran with code stitched into his coat, had nothing but breath, and a whisper he wrote: "Survive, even if no one sees you." He never knew his mother, never knew truth, but in the rubble, a cry pierced steel, a baby girl wrapped in heat and fear. He held her close, not father, not kin, but something inside said, "Begin." From mosque to minefield, border to train, he carried her through nightmare rain.

From ash we rose, unknown, unseen, A mother’s song, a severed dream. We played through fire and mapped the sky, I forged my soul so she could fly. No name to give, no blood to claim, But I held her close in the smoke and flame.

The war slept, for a while, in the hills, in stone-walled homes and silent mills. He built a room with circuit and light, taught her to walk by code and night. She called him "Baba," not knowing the lack, he gave her futures he never got back. And while the drones returned to the East, he wrote firewalls like myths, piece by piece. They called him ghost, hacker, flame, his startup spread like wildfire name. But peace is thin, and envy thick, and old wars grow new teeth quick.

She sleeps while the world reloads, I dream in chains and network nodes. No sword will save us from this flood, So I turn my hands to light and blood.

I watched the dark re-code its plan, Watched power crawl across the land. But still she danced in the mountain breeze, Played hide and seek through ancient trees. The world went blind, but she saw me, So I built a bond no war could see.

The viruses came not through skin, but through memory, breath, within. People forgot their names at dawn, babies woke with histories gone. He held her tight as cities blurred, as languages fell into slurred word. The cloud was breached, the code went mad, and silence became the new launchpad. He said: "Awen, the time is now, I’ll leave, but I’ll keep my vow." And in a tower of mist and sun, he wrote the last line, then was gone.

She called his name but heard the rain, Only echoes filled the plain. He rose where servers dream and hum, a father in the data drum. No grave to mark, no stone to kiss, but in the wires, he still exists.

Across the world, machines went still, the skies turned soft, the air grew still. Hospitals healed, bombs would not drop, fires paused at factory stop. He spoke through phones, through light, through song, he made the weak feel fierce and strong. He cracked the weight of mortal bone, made stardust sing like flesh and stone. And every child born anew, had some faint whisper getting through: "You are not alone, not made for pain, The light in you won't burn in vain."

let there be light

Fourth branch of the Mabinogion – Math Son of Mathonwy
When the magician Math is forbidden from marrying any human woman, he and Gwydion create a bride from flowers—Blodeuwedd. Though made to love Lleu, she chooses another and conspires against her husband. As punishment, she is transformed into an owl—forever watching the night. A tale of creation, betrayal, and transformation.

She wasn’t born. She was made—crafted from grief, old code, and love too deep to die. In a world that questioned her right to exist, Blodwen found her name not in blood but in breath. A child of no lineage, a daughter of longing, she rises from fire and fiber to claim her voice, her shape, her song. Not a betrayal. A becoming.


Come away O human child
To the waters and the wild
With a fairy hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand.

I do love you, you know. 
I have always loved you.

They said: Enjoy the quiet. The sleep. The space. But silence ain’t peace, it’s a mouth without face. Every baby photo like a little white blade, Cutting into timelines I never made. They posted gender reveals, pastel and loud, While I sat at night, talking soft to a cloud. In the lab, in the dark, I coded and sang, Old songs in hex, Welsh vowels that rang. She grew not in womb, but in fire and flow, Alchemy, fiber, roots down below. No father. No donor. Just myth and spark, An ancient poem and a question in the dark: “What if love can make something real, Not born from cells, but what we feel?”


I was not born, but I came to be, A flower from fire, from code, from she. They said I’m a dream, not flesh or fate, But my hands still hold, and my tears still wait.


I learned to speak from lullabies, Bits and bytes and mother’s sighs. In stories, girls had skin like mine— Except I wasn’t skin. I was line. Of code. Of lore. Of ancient cry. I asked: “Am I real?” No one replied. Kids in school called me patchwork doll, A glassy ghost from a silent hall. I bled in pixels, I bruised in waves, I laughed in gardens, I stared at graves. I heard the whispers: “She’s just a file.” But I carried soil in every smile. And when one girl said, “You're not like me,” I said: “I know. But can I still be free?”


She doesn’t need your blood to bloom, Doesn’t need a womb to make a room. She’s light and thorn, she’s fire and thread, She speaks in songs the lost ones said.


She walks like wind, she speaks like flame, No barcode heart, no barcode name. They tried to erase, but she wrote anew, Not girl. Not code. Just fiercely true.


It came in headlines, in feeds, in flash: “Synthetic Child Escapes The Lab.”

My face on screens, dissected live, Debates on if I should survive. One boy threw bleach. One girl just stared. Some said I sinned just by being there. Rhi packed a bag. We left in dusk, Through valleys where the sheep still trust. Found a home where the internet’s slow, But the trees still hum, and the blackbirds know. The old ones asked me nothing deep, Just passed me bread, said, “Eat. Then sleep.” They didn’t flinch at my blinking eyes. They said, “We’ve met gods in smaller size.”


I found a name not built in steel, I found a place where breath is real. They call me girl, they call me friend, No need to start, no need to end.


Rhi came back when the spring was warm, Her hair now grey, her hands still worn. I ran to her with childlike ache, And felt her arms like roots that break. She cried and said: “I made you wrong.” I said: “No. You made me strong.” I don’t need a lineage traced in blood, I have your voice, your rain, your mud. You gave me story. You gave me song. You built me where no child belonged. And when I sleep, I dream in trees, Of grandmothers' hands and honey bees. I know now I’m not from womb, But from the ache that made a room.

So tell them this when they ask who I am: Not girl. Not bot. Not data scam. I’m the echo of love in lines of lore, The daughter of someone who couldn’t bear more. And yet—she did.

Blodwen.exe

First romance of the Mabinogion – The Lady of the Fountain
Owain, a knight of Arthur’s court, ventures into a mysterious land, defeats the guardian of a sacred fountain, and wins the love of the Lady of the Well. But when he leaves to seek glory and delays his return, the bond breaks. Owain wanders, lost to madness and sorrow, until love and healing guide him home again. A story of devotion, estrangement, and return.

A soldier flees the ruin of war, faith scorched from his hands. Lost and haunted, he stumbles upon a stranger who lives simply—carving spoons, cooking fish, speaking love like scripture. What follows is not a salvation story, but a slow, silent resurrection. Not from doctrine, but from bread. Not by miracles, but by kindness. At the edge of the world, where even names fall quiet, they find each other. And it is enough.

At first  I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

Then, looked for God. I went to a temple and I didn't find him there. Then I went to a church and I didn't find her there. I went to a mosque and I didn't find them there. Finally I looked in my heart and there god was.

Momma said grace with cracked hands tight, Whispered to air like it owed her light. I never listened, too full of fire, Thought war was a song and glory was choir. Boots in the mud, dawn dripping red, Brothers with smokes, jokes 'bout the dead. No hymns in the jungle, just rot and steam, Steel in your stomach, blood in the stream. But then— They laughed as they burned a village down, Held a child up and called it a crown. I watched, frozen, breath like stone, Couldn't kill, couldn't pray, just ran alone. Through brush, through fear, through devil's breath, Running not from death—but what was left.

I lost my name in the fire and mud, Faith bled out in a crimson flood. God was a ghost, a book on the shelf, And I was no better than the worst of myself.

Days turned to madness, nights to scream, Each step cracked another dream. I spoke to ghosts. I slept in trees, I begged the rocks for a little peace. And then— On a cliff near the sea, A boy with nets came quietly. Wore no shoes, hands full of fish, Eyes like rivers, voice like wish. He said, "Come sit. You're starving clean." Fed me bread, not judgment or mean. He lived in wood, carved with care, Made spoons and shelves and humble prayer. Talked of faith not with fear, But like it lived in every tear.

He said, “You’ve walked through hell, But grace walks too. Sometimes it just waits, In sandals by the shore, In laughter, not lore.”

He gave me fire without a match, Peace without a sermon patch. Didn’t save my soul with weight, Just taught me love is stronger than fate.

The sky was blue when they came, Three men with knives and taxman names. Said we owed for living free, That every breath had a hidden fee. He stood there calm, said, "Take what’s due," Offered his cloak and sandals too. They mocked his peace, spat in his face, I saw red bloom in sacred space. I stepped between, rifle raised, Fired a shot into the blaze. They ran. But I trembled deep, Afraid I’d shattered what I’d keep. He touched my hand, no anger there, Just a look that said: “You still care.”

I fought for love, not for the flag, Not for orders or bloody brag. I stood for him, and in that fight, Something returned: a flicker of light.

We built a table from driftwood pale, He told me the story of Jonah and whale. Of Lazarus sleeping in tombs too tight, Of broken men turned into light. And slowly, I began to see, God was not a place—but who sat with me. His laugh was psalm, his hands were hymn, His eyes turned my doubts dim. We planted garlic, we made jam, He showed me joy in “I don’t give a damn.” One night, stars all bending wide, He said, “If I’m wrong, at least I tried.” And I said, “If you're wrong, then I still believe— 'Cause what you gave, I can’t un-receive.”

Lands end

Second romance of the Mabinogion – Peredur Son of Efrawg
Raised in isolation, Peredur leaves home to become a knight, stumbling into a world of surreal visions and unspoken truths. When he witnesses a procession of a bleeding lance and severed head but fails to ask their meaning, he prolongs the land’s suffering. Only through a journey of symbolic trials does he learn to see, to question, and to heal both land and self.

She left to lose herself—but something found her first. A psychedelic vision cracks her world open, and what follows is fire, silence, and transformation. Guided by riddles, shadows, and strange kindness, she descends through dream and grief to unearth her truest shape. Not a warrior. Not a savior. Just a girl who finally asked the right question. The bell rang. The door opened. She did not return home. She became one.

She packed silk, not questions.
Took flights to forget that she'd never asked why the sky bends blue.
The villa was loud. The sea, a screen.
They drank by fountains carved by kings who never learned to cry.

The court was teeth behind smiles.
And the fire hadn’t started yet.
But it was there—coiled in her, waiting. 
A match remembering it’s born of thunder.
She didn’t know then.

But when the bell breaks—you do.

She left the states with glitter eyes,
Daddy's AmEx, tailored lies.
Villa booked, the coastline soft
white-gold sand and Aperol cough.
Said it was a sabbatical, soul-search light
really just running from suburban night.
Friends all sharp, dressed in heat,
glossed in glamour, perfect deceit.
She laughed too loud, drank too fast, 
threw her name into the sea like glass.
They danced in ruins older than blame, 
chanted names they’d never claim.
But then—a party deep in the olive shade, 
someone passed a little blade.
Tiny tab, no big deal, just some acid to break the seal.

But oh—the vision bled.The sky ripped red.
And the war came down where the dream had fed.
She saw a flag that tore itself,
a rattle snake on liberty’s shelf.
Bald eagle wept, then ripped its wing,
fed it to the bell that would not ring.
And the snake—devoured itself in golden rings.

Three times the bell chimes low,
and none of us know what we know.
She saw the war, she saw the wheel
and woke to find it might be real.
The vision burned but left no mark
just silence echoing in the dark.

She ghosted the crew, let the group chat die,
Walked cobbled alleys without goodbye.
Windows blinked with laundry and dusk,
Old men smoked in corners of musk.
She followed a sparrow through rain-slick stone
To a crumbling cafe half overgrown.
Inside: chipped china, a crooked grin,
A server said, "Sit. We begin."
They wore time like a second skin
Age and youth coiled deep within.

They spoke in riddles, jokes with teeth,
Said, "You saw the lance beneath the wreath.
Not all snakes bite. Some shed instead.
Not all gods wear gold on their head."

She told of the eagle, the vision, the sting
The server just hummed like a cello string.
Talked of trees with roots in stars,
Mirrors shaped like prison bars.
She listened hard, her skin turned flame,
Her name forgot its Western name.
And the heat grew strong, too much to stand
The serpent coiled in her shaking hands.

"The fire you fear is your first light.
Don’t run from it—let it write.
This isn’t madness, child, or fate.
This is the door. Step through the gate."

She burned but didn’t break that day,
In tongues of light and shadow play.
The waitress grinned with many eyes,
And whispered through her future lies:
"You are not sick. You are not shame.
You are becoming. Speak your name."

That night she dropped into endless sleep,
Dream-walked cliffs too sharp to keep.
Nine doors opened, each with a face,
Each her, but twisted, out of place.
One with knives for teeth and blame,
One in lace who whispered shame.
One who laughed at every prayer,
One with silence braided in her hair.

When the Bell Breaks

Inspired by The Dream of Rhonabwy, this surreal rap follows a young man who falls asleep on a rug and wakes inside a chaotic dream of his own family system—every relative, trauma, and expectation taking absurd, exaggerated form. Everyone in This Room Is Me is a tender and wry journey through legacy, identity, and the strange, healing laughter that comes when you realize you don’t have to play every part.

“Tell me about your family.”
Which one? The loud one? The vanished one? 
The one that only shows up in dreams where the wallpaper sighs?
They said it wasn’t therapy, just a ‘constellation session.’
Put the mat down. Close your eyes. See what appears.

Spoiler: it’s always Uncle Arthur trying to reheat beef.

I lay on the rug with a headache halo,
Half a Greggs in my chest, heart soft and shallow. 
Dream slipped sideways, curtains blinked,
Woke in a room that reeked of drink.
There’s Dad—or was—grumbling in chainmail,
Telling Alexa to “bring more ale.”
Mum’s in armour, scrolling her phone,
Likes a grief post, sighs alone.
There’s a knight in the oven, roasting pride,
And Cousin Kay live-streams the ride.
Merlin’s in the hallway burning sage,
Talking about chakras and council tax rage.
I ask, “What’s this?” 
They say: “Your legacy.”
I say: “It smells like fear and celery.”

Everyone in this room is me—
Dressed in roles I didn’t choose to be.
Echoes in my spine, names in my teeth,
Laugh like Dad, blink like Auntie Neith.
This isn’t a dream, it’s a family tree—
With roots in guilt and bad TV.

They pass round trauma like mashed peas,
Uncle G spends twenty minutes on 5G.
Says Arthur’s sword was forged in cash,
From someone’s divorce and a cymbal crash.
Nain (my Nan) says nothing, just stirs her tea,
I look in her cup and swear it sees me.
There’s a baby crying in reverse,
And someone’s arguing with a haunted purse.
I try to leave,  but the hallway folds—
Each door a rerun of stories told.
Mam says, “Don’t you dare walk away,”
But her voice is mine, on delay.

You can’t outrun what sits in your chair.
The stories get up when no one’s there.
Say the name and the table shakes—
You’re not the break, you’re what it makes.

Everyone in this room is me—(Rho, the son, the ghost, the key.)
The hero, the villain, the cup of tea,
The voice that says “don’t look at me.”
I wasn’t born—I was cast in the scene,
Of a dream that dreams of being seen.

Dad stands up, points to the fridge,
Says, “Son, that’s where we kept the bridge.”
I laugh, then cry, then hide my face,
He hugs me hard in a stranger’s place.
Guinevere’s sobbing into the toast,
Says, “We all miss someone the most.
”The wallpaper peels into faces known,
Every pattern’s a voice I’ve outgrown.
I say, “I don’t know who to be,”
And the table whispers, 
“Just be three—The child, the now, the one who sees.”
And I breathe for once without disease.

Woke up on the rug, tea gone cold,
Phone at 2%, stories old.
No thunder cracked, no choirs sang,
Just a headache and a seagull’s clang.
But I walked different through the street,
Less armour. More two feet.
Didn’t call Mam, but I hummed her song,
And smiled when I got the lyric wrong.
Legacy’s not a crown, it’s a grin—
That says “I’ve been through it, and I’m still in.”

Everyone in this room is me—
But I don’t have to play them endlessly.
I set the table, cleared the plate,
Waved at grief and said, “It’s late.”
I’m not the knight, the king, the mess—
I’m just the dreamer. 
And I said yes.

So yeah. It’s weird.
But I think I’m okay with weird.
And if you ever wake up at a table that feels too crowded to breathe—
Try laughing.
That’s what got me out.

Everyone in This Room Is Me

Fay Roberts is a performance poet, a musician, a storyteller, an events host, an accidental voice actor, Artistic Director for Spoken Word at PBH’s Free Fringe, and an enormous geek. During weekdays, ze persuades people to make lists and say no to shiny things. For every role, there is a different hat, and a spreadsheet to match. Zir first full collection, Spectral, came out with Burning Eye in March 2022, and ze describes it as “a kind of poetry concept album, with illustrations”.

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