I couldn’t wait to find my way back to the other room,
grown unfamiliar in its leaves and branches.
Some walls were gone but the shelves were still intact
with books I thought I’d lost in a mass of mould and moss.
This was my room with my belongings strewn across the floor,
left without a second thought, as if I’d be back soon,
as if the past was something you could just reach out and touch,
instead of being cast adrift against the current.
Through thin walls I heard a commotion of people on their way home,
the estate echoed with their peculiar voices under the moon.
Then it dawned on me that the room was an unreal room,
my heart sank like a stone when the scales fell from my eyes.
The moonbeams’ silver light, their slender slivers of light,
I name their several names, though none sees what patterns they make.
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