The tree house sits on a giant Kottang tree in the backyard.
A playhouse, a play pen for a little child
And a gadget-rich den for inner-child. It seems
What makes a child a dweller inside a tree house, sculpts
A man with a little foggy heart, misted in nostalgia
Of how once things were, embellished with the need to invent his own little space.
Toy train tracks go all around the floor planked with ebony
With landscaped surroundings, figurines of farmers, train drivers and truckers.
The big fellows driving even bigger monsters of steel – tractors, trains & trucks.
And arranged on book racks are the DIY books of carpentry
And the latest car magazines sold at the nearest Seven Eleven
And a large sofa, with a Nintendo game console next to it.
Little figurines of dinky cars and super hero figures litter
The small cabinet on the side wall. And all is hunky dory here
Child and inner-child eclipsed together. The springtime memories
And the autumn dreams. A sacred truth hung on mental walls.
It seems we never really grow out of our cocoons. And even when we grow
Wings, we retreat back to the homely places we once treasured.
The larvae that we once were, walled inside a little fiber closet
Light in nature, a little sentimental, always a collector
And we build these treehouses inside abysses of our heart
Just to accommodate the monkeys we once were,
Who lost their tails and grew up.