not my things

there are seven deer
and sixteen swans
dancing atop her bedside table
in the room that is not mine
but is trying to be filled with my things

my things are not really my things at all
they are a collection of things i could not leave in one country
somethings are very special
not because of what they are
but because of how they came to be
the things in this
not my room
in this
not my house
i am slowly coming to terms with the fact
in essence
i really own nothing
except the thoughts in my head
which of late seem stolen and regurgitated
like bird food
i hope one day
i will know what it is to earn something
and in earning
truly own
however important that is.