Rooms

A thousand miles in a tiny box,

Four hundred hours,

20 different rooms,

don't mean anything.

A door, a window,

one bed and a cabinet,

Quite and empty.

Lifeless.

Not exactly true,

Not lifeless, but waiting for life,

Not empty, but space for you.

But not for you, not you alone.

This room, the same as any,

is defined by the owner,

it could be a prison,

just as it could be a paradise.

You impose a feeling,

you interpret the mood.

A room is a room,

like any other,

In the inky blackness,

of the tiny windows,

The gentle glow,

of a simple lamp.

Elegance in pale tones,

and sparce furniture.

Solid oak and leather,

and vast space.

Make what you will,

of this mental image.

Whatever you tell yourself,

My truth is something new.

This is my uncles home,

a place too perfect to be real.

But with wine, family, and food,

this place is a heaven of a home.

So, look to your environment,

and try to behold the truth,

This place is only complete,

with love inside the walls.