There is a house,
at the dead end
of my mind.
It sits deceivingly,
behind a facade
of false cheer.
But It's dark there,
no light seeps in,
no birds sing.
Inside are dark corners,
secrets guarded
by shame and guilt.
Neglected artifacts
of naive hopes, expectations
and buried dreams.
A lonesome tune plays,
sounds of unsaid words,
playing in a loop.
A greying unloved place,
filled with cobwebs
of self-hatred and pity.
The pipes clogged
with suppressed emotions
and tears that refuse to fall.
The floorboards creak,
protesting against any
help that ventures therein.
It's foundations eaten away
by hollow promises
and gloating mistrust.
An unwelcoming place,
better left alone
to perish in its squalor.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~
YOU ARE READING
Window pain
PoetryThis book is but a humble attempt at encapsulating life and all its flavours. It is an ode to the sad days and melancholy nights. For grief that stays alive even after years have passed. Musings of longings and dreams of escape. And a protest agai...
