‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’

A dark brown almost black desk,
Over a decade old,
Sat in my room

Serving as everything 

My little brain could imagine at nine;

A spaceship rocketing through galaxies
A tower with a balcony

A little shop where my sister and I sold 'Magic Water'

A stage for performances

A carriage drawn by horses.

A dark brown almost black desk,
Over two decades old,

Sits in my room

Decorated with trinkets

Pieces of my personality

My colourful potted plants
Too many candles

Letters
Feathers

Books

Pictures

Pebbles.

I sit here, fabricating tales
Of sorrow and joy,

Creating worlds far and beyond

Stitching feelings together;

Calling them Poetry

Dreaming of dragons and stardust

Flying through the clouds almost like a Raven

So when The Mad Hatter asks
‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’

Looking right into my eyes

With his glassy dazed gaze,

I whisper,

'Because it can be anything.'