It's a habit of mine to walk slowly
through the chambers of my mind.
I build them each in turn,
weaving my dreams to fragile, empty shell,
moving from cramped comfort
growing into the unknown
only to outgrow it and move again,
walling the past behind
but always leaving a peephole to the chamber before,
to see what I have been.
I spiral back to a first small chamber
of dark liquid.
Back to the center of myself.