it is. . .
more than a place
to retire my thoughts,
simply more than a balm
to heal;

worth far more
than a lifetime relationship lost,
but a place where my thoughts
i reveal;

it is. . .
more than a hobby
to calm me when stressed,
so much more than a saga
to learn;

sometimes it's more precious
than kinsman
or friend,
a place where my innerbabe
secretly yearns

for some. . .
it means ego, a station
of heralded honor by poets unsung;
but my den bears insignias from
less hostile worlds
where plural tribunals
converge into 1.


© 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed