My possessions are all brown
Though they differ in sizes
Rectangular prisms are conquering my abode.

I gaze at the piling boxes
Recycled at the supermarket as I refused
To pay to cage my belongings.

From my viewpoint they are forming towers
The sketch of a city, an agglomerate of building blocks.
They are branded and their names look like billboards.

Besides the guitar still free at the top of the heap
The boxes themselves slowly repel me
Compelling me to a grimace. At each glance.

I ponder on human frailty
Wondering why we cling on possessions
When evidently we need none.

Perhaps I would save the bed and my books,
Though I love my records and their player
The little tea pot I bought in Portobello,

The digeridoo and the briefcase filled with photos,
My Modigliani print and why not?
Even my mixed tapes and my CDs.

As I feel the effects of my grimaces on my cheeks
My exhausted weight-lifting body
My frowning forehead I conclude

Though I could live without I will not
Part from my possessions dressed in brown.