Dwelling on Myself
I am the dwelling.
Sometimes a hut, seldom a castle,
often a house under construction,
walls removed, a wood floor taken up,
revealing the debris of a life,
mostly rat shit, I might add.
Sometimes a treasure,
a porcelain button, a doll's leg.
Dwelling on myself.
I spend too much time
going room to room
dreaming about paint
and perfect furniture.
To leave this house is to die.
I understand that.
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