The room swallows its invaders, the forest green comforting yet crushing
Its comfort as hands cradling the softness of a chick, or boxing in the of the sow
She beckons to her captives, visitors unawares of her innards, her gut feelings
Even the ghosts crawl away in fear, their souls wandering the blanched out streets

Brick after brick, she hardens her heart, her eyes as windows to her boxed soul
Lending her comfort she messes herself, her contents spewed about like trash
Tidy up my mess of a life, count the bricks of my face, love me, hold me
The road to her majestic arms, the drive to her madness makes her swoon

She is not free, you can bank on that
She desires to roam, to live free, fresh air
But she has shut herself out, yet in she dives
As do her invaders, that forest green
How just grand, that room