Drowning Room (in a Burning City)

"Why does the world have to spin?" She asks standing still outside a room wherein All the shelves find themselves on the floor, And the contents, dizzy, are running for the door. Spent your mid-twenties burning cities. You were always good at swimming, But your belongings now are yearning for the shore. Plastered smile to hide the truth from surfacing. Painting portraits and brushing over those burdening. Each stroke felt like a blessing, but now the carpet's getting messy. An expressionism of all your shortcomings. The same goes for her. The same goes for him. The same goes for all Time and time again. A room disheveled and slowly emptied on its own. More room for bigger shelves, but all the same alone. The closet is a graveyard for the vast array Of drowning animals and poems you forsake. And the bedding in the frame will always feel the same when your feet are cold and warmth is miles away.
The carpet was wet and removed (to make room) For new expressions since the old have gone astray. Thoughts are scattered like a Pollock. The cerebration's not symbolic to any beauty that may or (may) not remain. The same goes for her. The same goes for him. The same goes for all Time and time again. "Why does the world have to spin?"