four white corners

counting pictures on my wall, one two three

how many memories will i take with me

one drawing, two lists, four photographs

the first disc i was given, my first wookie as staff

a candle, some feathers, what stays behind

a note that she wrote and a poem that he signed

or the prints that, like family, hung over my head

for fourteen years, they watched over my bed

i can't take these white walls, that i wrote on in pen

or the ceiling i walked on, again and again

i don't want certificates or the poster of snow

the quotes can all stay but the art must all go

mostly i want the deep dark, the night air

give me feelings of home: the rest, i don't care

but i'll miss all the promises of this room

the cast open drapes, the sunrise view

and all the things i wanted to do

(like give that painted rose to you)

my future, in brief, is contained in one thing

a tassle of green, gold and blue string

and when i shut the door on this room for good

i won't give up nearly as much as i should.

XXXX-