The room isn’t empty like the last one.
There are beds and cupboards.
A window with a curtain on it.
A room mate too.
But this room lacks a home.
Winter, cold streets, the blind man and his momos.
It’s lovely. It is lonely
There is no home to go back to.
The house still stands
It stands with all its strange lies, muddled with the hopes of a breeze
No name and no titles, no addresses and no postcards.
It just stands.
Voices of humans, mingled in conversations
Loud and violent
Soft and stagnant
NO record, no account.
Files with data, with sores and cuts; folded and kept in cabinets of rut
Sometimes thrice a day.
The house has weak locks, for it is rumbled inside.
In sleep, at night, it starves. It aches for love
It’s pillars stand the distrust of it’s members
Longing for spring awhile, of yellow light and blue flutter-bys
Of silently growing grass with a light flow of wind
No bruised words. No closed windows
Opened and closed wistfully without fear
Too small the house is, it could resonate!
Sounds travelled afar, to other homes and to the one’s inside.
The house, it wept. It slowly rose to fall.
But it’s concrete would not give way, it wanted to stand still.
Oh so still
No anger, no grief, no love no anguish could move it
It was an aloof little friend
So shallow and heartless
Standing in health and sickness.