Sometimes a black bin bag filled with rubbish.
Occasionally – rarely – a cathedral filled with God.
More often a busy highway filled with ceaseless traffic.
From time to time, a beehive filled with buzzing busy thoughts
That fill it with movement and noise, but with little substance.
A bus stop, waiting, waiting for just the right word
That will take me to my destination.
An overstocked library with ancient tomes spilling out
Of dusty shelves, much forgotten, so little retained.
A haunted house, filled with ghosts from the past.
A deep bottomless pit down which all is drawn.
A black hole from which no thought can escape.
A house of illusion.
A theatre of the absurd.
A comedy theatre, where the most ridiculous plays are performed on stage daily.
When you draw near, a garden of love, fragrance filled
Glowing with colour and shape.
A garden of peace, God filled,
Full of fragrant blossoms and soothing colour.
A place of dreams.
But above all else, a place I know well, for this is where I dwell,
This is my home, my space, where only some may enter,
A space where I can bar the door and shutter the windows
Turn out the lights and escape into blessed sleep