My world
My gray world

My lonely world


My small world

It fits
In my hand

An orb
I hold it up
To catch my reflection

And find a room

My room

Beautiful shelves

Hundreds of books
Portraits of family
No door
But for my orb
I cannot reach those shelves
Nor touch the many books
I know naught of that family

I find my room

My study

Comfortable chairs

Sturdy desk
High window
No door
But for my orb
I’ve yet to sit in those chairs
Or stand beside the desk
I know nothing of that view

Except that of my orb




My globe



My world


My life


My existence

My room

Cold

Gray


Empty

Except for me

And my orb