Each has a place where we can go,
And no one else can be.
Its interior they will never know,
And vault can never see.

From start to end we're home alone,
It's from here that we peer out.
An inner space to most unknown,
Little shown or talked about.

It's where we live our earthly days,
Its door but inched ajar.
From where true self but rarely strays,
And never ventures far.

Through which we view our life's brief play,
Small part we're called to take.
Bound whilst here, short span to stay,
Of it something try to make.

A place of all imaginings,
From where our world is shaped.
A part which to us ever clings,
And by only death escaped.

It's an inner deep dark sea of one,
Both friend and mortal foe.
Where calm and peace can be undone,
Yield to its undertow.

Some struggle with derangement,
Of this precarious part of being.
With no easy rearrangement,
Back to a wonted way of seeing.

Its voice is ours but sometimes not,
As it narrates our cerebrations.
Interpreter and polyglot,
As it guides our ruminations.

Over time, parts loved or spurning,
We replace or rearrange.
New experience and learning,
Will its basic aspect change.

And this place of all self-knowing,
Is obliged to us persist.
Until we part, when done our growing,
And from our tenure is dismissed.

On this indrawn self, this mind, this soul,
Our existence does depend.
It's our introspective, museful whole,
To which the world we sparing lend.

We wish sometimes that we could share,
What we truly think and feel.
But if we could, then may not dare,
Break this sacred self-tight seal.

We try offer when we can a peek,
But so small a glimpse is fraught.
As of us will so briefly speak,
That there's no essence of us caught.

So never might we be understood,
And the things we yearn to say.
But perhaps there's no good time we should,
Let this place see light of day.

But rejoice that here we're almost free,
It's a place to soar and fly.
Unfettered, it's to here we flee,
Where on ourselves we can rely.

It's here that the self to itself explains,
Curates a semblance from it all.
Which our true self falsifies and feigns,
Beyond our stockade wall.

Yet we acknowledge that within us each,
There's a truer self inferred.
Which silently does all beseech,
To be perceived without being heard.