Her space, hers alone

No one else dare enters

The door that can be seen

Tucked away in the corner

Down the hall

Visible through the floating dust

The door, like a prism

Reflects colours in the light

The door, often dark

Like the shadows it hides in.

Her space, hers alone

Only she has the key

To the ebony mess

To the growing mass

Of turmoil that is her space

Projects always started

Tasks half complete

Like a masterpiece begun

Left undone by early demise

Of the creator’s passion.

Her space, hers alone

No one else dare enters

Unknowing where to safely step

Upon entry one would be lost

Would be overwhelmed

By the shards of despair

By the shreds of hope

That dangle with frayed ends

From a caved-in ceiling.

Her space, hers alone

Where flowers don’t survive

All the vases cracked, bottomless

Strewn about the floor

With dried petals from the age of youth

Each “love-me, love-me-not”

Tattooed into the weathered hardwood

And sealed with tears.

Her space, hers alone

Ever changing, always the same.