In the glow of molten wax flows—
soft, shifting shapes that never settled.
The room hummed under dim lamplight,
a quiet rebellion against the dark.
Alarm clock numbers blinked red,
holding time hostage, trying to matter.
But the Walkman had stolen my hours,
tangled cassette ribbons telling my secrets.
Raquel Welch smiled from the wall,
bold, impossible, larger than life.
I wondered if her gaze could see me,
sitting cross-legged in bell-bottom dreams.
The 1970s crackled in the air,
between disco beats and vinyl truths.
Every corner of my room whispered
of freedom wrapped in polyester promises.
Outside, the world marched and shouted.
Inside, my lava lamp soothed in silence.
Molten glow, a reminder to stay fluid,
to shift, to rise, to occasionally fall.