There’s a model ship sitting in my room;
above the desk.
It sails upon the stale and noiseless air—
There’s a globe, turning idly in my room;
on the bookshelf.
It shows me that I can’t go anywhere—
A light bulb flick-flickers out in my room;
the ceiling dims.
I can’t see anything, but I don’t care—
There lies a hand-bound journal in my room;
upon the desk.
Its secrets—hidden there, I do not share—
My heart is full, it hasn’t any room;
that’s why it cries.
In silence holding her beyond compare—
I wake up.
And yet, I know I will not leave my room;
that’s where I lie.
It is a tomb, the ending womb: my lair—
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