Structure
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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