Room

Room

In the hush of a living‑room,
the light spills softer than a blushing dawn,
through drapes that sigh like old trees.
A rug of Persian threads, a gentle thrum,
holds the noise of mornings that we try to turn.

The coffee table, a grant‑maker of myths,
holds ceramic cups of tea, each a quiet vow.
“Somebody can yet,” the air insists,
beneath the lamp’s amber breath that cools the brow.

Walls whisper secrets heard before the first frost,
painted in gentle blues and lavender hush.
Windows frame gazes beyond the hedged path,
where the gold‑leafed trees slip in the dusk.

There’s a study—columns of books, a leather chair,
ink smudged on a page, a forgotten air.
Letters and letters, patterns creeped in dust,
questions that linger – “Would you trust?”

The bedroom hums with a duvet’s soft weight,
the mattress stretches with a quiet, loving grace.
The clock ticks in a rhythm kept by heartbeats,
while dreams thread through the space, a silent, mild race.

And in the corner, a forgotten cupboard,
holds a violin, a lullaby kept out of sight.
Its strings know the path that tailors tonight,
to play with the echo of moonlit delight.

So let the room be a canvas, a quiet space,
a living poem that’s written in the swirl.
A refuge of breath, a chorus of trace,
where every brick remembers the world’s own swirl.