Sunken amongst dense cushions
Effortlessly suspended between days and dreams
With a glance towards the door a tapestry of vague texture comes into focus
A distant bell chimes
Stories woven of sylvan romance
Bent branches reach over thin streams and pale legs
Youth immortalized but withered into limp threads
The trickling of water heard beyond the walls
A drowsy drape of flowers lace the air
Disrupted as slow limbs bend to stand up
A final graze of the cushion warmed by slumber
The ends of fingers lift from silken braids
As feet step onto slick stone
And eyes widen with stimulated senses
Surrounded by objects precious but unrecognized for purpose or history
A lithe stone woman cradles her flute glancing towards an unknown thought
Her song unheard and her story buried
Her image only seen as a vain reflection
A rhythm of strumming seems to retreat
Skin exposed to tepid air
The only sign of life in this scene of silk and stone
A box is opened and cloths blindly drawn to blend back into the room
A step through the dark threshold
And another fondle of fabric
Opening to a bright space centered by a heavy wooden table
Illustrious in its intricate carving of lines and curves
Broad legs rooted into the ground
A lush rug poured out to the very edges of the room
Where pillars of wood stretch up to the ceiling
Separated by faded paintings whispering long tales of nameless places
Silver platters hold stacks of fruits and caramel
Enough to satisfy throngs of people
But available only to the one who takes a single bite and leaves the room
Thoughtlessly moving through room after room
A body only used to touch and smell and taste and hear
Language a forgotten concept
Happening upon a group of soundless people
Simple smiles each content with the surrounding sensations
Hands murmur with a lack of thought in a thick smoke of apathy
An interlocking maze of lounging bodies
The beating of a low drum concealed beneath the floor
Eyes only moving to watch the patterns lining the four wide walls
With every shift of view appears another lavish layer
The edges of the room go unnoticed
Nothing is tense or taut
With aimless caresses disinterest arises and another room beckons
Each room a sprawl of comfort and a limit of liberty
Laying amongst a flood of cushions and kettles
Walls of books without endings
Their words without need to be read
The same stories written again and again
Room after room with intermissions of sleep
Dreaming of dancing in sunlight
Eyes opening to opaque ceilings
Living in false memories
A symphony always out of reach