Orchid flowers bloom beneath iron chandeliers,
velvet chairs cupped by a dragon\'s wing,
golden light stitched with whispers of old.
How wondrous the world, in flea markets,
dusty corners where ghosts hold secrets,
prisms of time contained, waiting.
Each find, a heartbeat from forgotten hearts,
mirrors that reflect more than faces,
frames adorned with gentle tears of age.
I gather stories in peacock hues,
brush off remnants of someone else\'s,
dreams, echoing madly on my walls.
A carousel of daring treasures spins,
round and round in my riotous spaces,
a home built on threads of imagination.
Flamboyant, yes, but wildly alive,
each object a tale stitched in time,
every corner a sanctuary for whimsy.