I design my rooms with arches made of light,
A terracotta floor beneath a heavy, shifting sky.
Where strict, enduring angles meet the warmth of summer night,
And quiet, ancient courtyards watch the centuries pass by.
We are the authors of the spaces we inhabit,
Collecting heavy words along a rising riverbank.
We reach for striking syntax, hoping we can grab it,
To fill the spaces where our silent shadows sank.
The world is just a blueprint constantly redrawn,
A scenic overlook where time begins to blur.
We stand between the midnight and the waking dawn,
Remembering the versions of the things we were.
So let the borders soften, let the focus fade,
From classic stone to banks where sacred waters run.
The finest things we carry are the spaces slowly made—
A patchwork house constructed underneath the sun.