Brutalist Nomad With A Suitcase of Rooms

The building packed itself
and left the city.

Now it squats on watercolor ground,
a backpack of magenta roofs and teal corridors.

Every triangle is a forgotten entrance,
every rectangle a room that changed its mind.

Orange remembers staircases,
blue remembers rain,
violet just wants to be a curtain.

This is architecture on the run,
a concrete animal made of corners,

dragging its shadows across the paper
and asking quietly:

if I no longer touch the street,
am I still a house
or already a thought?