Old pine paneling

A tarnished bedside stand

A stack of classic books

A pen, some ink and sand

A mirror hung askew, as if to make a statement

The way I often see myself is subject to displacement

And evident in my surroundings

Cold steel frame, old boxspring sounding

Drowning all else out

The screech of antique coils, bearing weight with doubt

A stout box of cigars, empty for a century

So hollow and profound, like it really gets me

Let me ramble on

Or simply walk away

I’m bound to change while you are gone