The books were piled, stacks on the floor

Interspersed with clothes and trinkets.

Who knew what was clean?

Who knew what was dirty,

Be it books or crumpled shirts?

The bed, unmade, was unwelcoming,

The covers wrinkled, the quilt on the floor.

Was this a place for deep sleep?

Who knew what the boy dreamt

Be it lovely tales or nightmares?