My walls are fragmented roots that form and bend along the cracks of my surface
I build from the rug stained patterns to the tiny dents of furniture
I rise to small plastic constellations that encompass my canopy bed
And I embrace the years of a growing life
I watch as my roots turn to wonder and begin to blossom into angst
I witness splashes and light as well as loss and surrender
My roots line the halls of a two story house, breathing in the character of each of my sitters
One door slams behind a boy trying to be a man,
checking out of my Safe House and into another Bank
Another rings with laughter and Playful woes,
the echoes of an innocence not yet tainted.
My tree is decorated, furnished and cared for by the wind and the ways
I am surrounded by love.
I am held together by soil and weather, a garden planted to grow
But my room, my room is the hollow center of my dying willow tree
One season my branches died out and although life in me goes on living,
my roots and my room aren't left free.


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