Spongy toes project awkwardly,
from dark flesh of gentle feet,
waxy liquid in blue bottles,
leather bound books laid in dust,
quintals of paper sheets flying astray,
dingy bulbs cutting dark holes,
flashy portraits stuck to red brick,
antiquated moulds of varnished wood,
ceramic squares of lavatory tiles,
ergonomic bulge of fantasy pillows,
scented sprays, with a blend of antiseptic,
colored tablets of soap, a range of toiletry,
sliding cabinets of solid steel,
thick drapery of rich curtain spread,
shielding stringent rays of sunlight,
solitary vents for cool air,
sprawled water beds with tepid water,
reliable tetra winged ceiling fan,
with switchboard panels pummeled to concrete,
electronic gadgetry on revolving rubber,
black pointed arrows of the giant father clock,
exaggerated crumbling polished wall paint,
tall framework of slanted mirrors,
crisp shirts of pure cotton floss,
grey linen flannels hanging down,
semicircular marble arches with potted plants,
strips of black scotch tape spread wildly,
translucent glass panes of window shutters,
shaven wood scalps of voodoo witchcraft,
the large oak tree at visible heights,
shooting through solid foundations,
with shadows of ecstasy lurking stealthily,
a glittering heap of silver coins,
solid iron doors with heavy bolts,
providing loads of security,
escalating fragrance of tangible comfort,
with a pandemonium of chorused voices,
is all what i have in my room.
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