Walls of mint blue,
Cushions of crimson red,
Pages of make-believe
Are still yet to be read.
Strings, so loose and unnatural,
The song they sing is constantly wrong.
Inside wooden panels, dusty and creaking,
Cotton, thread and lace is hung.
The door, it closes without a sound,
Outside influences aren't there, barely.
It's my place to escape from their world,
My space, my mind, my sanctuary.