In My Tiny Room

My rooms, real or imagined.

Not a showcase for the world,
rather one shellacked box
with a water repellent finish;
a match for my verve,
with no shame
or blame but

enjoying the drama,
exchanging pleasantries with the walls,
I enclose myself
in words
cast and recast,
revealing shapes
from a naked soul
in porous imaginings.

Never could conceive
a sculptured existence,
for I live my life in one tiny room,
renovated so
clipped wings will grow
to leave behind
the earth’s crust
with forget-me-nots.

Far from swirls of marauding minds,
my room graces my passionate steps,
where moody messages
intertwine with
spells of turbulence
to create
a bargained rapture.

Even when filled with doubt,
without wishing anything to be different,
I find the end of a rainbow,
amid multicolored lines,
an easy access to my pot of gold.