Worn Away Walls

I live in rooms housed in the interior, some just small cells cut into bone, spaces barely big enough to fit a soul. Others offer more with sweeping views of oceans, mountains, waterfalls spilling endlessly over sun drenched escarpments and long corridors leading to nowhere and everywhere with mirrors splitting the mind into light. There are rooms groaning under the weight of books, learnings spun like sticky webs that hold me trussed up like prey. Heavens caught in words and given wings to float across time, monuments brushed by immortality and symphonies so moving as to be a breath away from pain. Then there are dark places with no windows or doors, musty chambers for the fallen and racks stretched across nights where a Grand Inquisitor exacts confessions and sentences the condemned to hell. A lifetime has been spent inside these rooms of my own making, looking out onto a world set by seasons which have slowly seeped through and worn away the walls of my home.