My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.  

I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.

I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.

Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.

My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.

It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.

My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.

I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night