Never In House, But Always At Home

Don’t come looking in my room,
You won’t find me ever there.
I’m always gone at five to eight,
But go and look if you care.

You shall see the paper strewn,
Across my central carpet.
Step past my section for painting,
And view all my books well lit.

There, spiritual and classics,
Half read, flicked through, memorised.
A variance in what I do,
With a book, however sized.

Down a drop music does play,
Classical movements in peace.
Lower still: things I want rid,
Come buy, if you will, some piece.

A bundle of miniatures,
Mid-build and so little done.
All these things to play around with,
But where is the owner gone?

Far from my family’s house,
But close to my loved one’s heart.
By time I am returning there,
You shall have your sleep to start.


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