In the corner of the room there’s a cupboard with a door
And the cupboard with a door has a key,
The key to the cupboard is hidden in a drawer
And the drawer is only visible to me.
The drawer is in a chest that resides within my flesh
And it opens inwards running on two rails,
The rails are my truth and my passions since my youth,
Timely constant with a gradual unveil.
The key within the drawer, the drawer on the rails,
The rails that let the drawer in me glide,
Is silver’d and small, but, perhaps, best of all
It lets a part of me exist and live inside.
On the days when the key is needed for its task
To open cupboard up so I can see,
The rails may object, preferring circumspect,
But I oil them, they slide forth, releasing key.
The cupboard in my room is related to the drawer,
Structured from the very same tree,
It shelters life in measure, guards well all my treasures,
Is my forest in the rains, my canopy.
In the corner of the room where the cupboard with the door,
The door that calls to drawer, release the key,
Is a woman, cupboard tall, though inside she’s still quite small,
A drawer-sized child who looks a lot like me.
The child inside our chest still prefers the nest,
Snuggled in the drawer with silver key
But the cupboard in the corner of the room that we call life
Insists we open up to set ourselves free.