They fake their eyes and leave the premises,
And I search for the drops,
Heaving a sigh, I unburden my soul,
Falsity dwells in the holes of roads,
In the wrinkles of stones,
And when a home collapses,
They say “time will tell”,
And I feel, isn’t the long unanswered silence,
Telling since forever.
Sometimes home haunts,
It penetrates as if it has changed,
The home is wearing someone else’s skin,
And it haunts,
Like a skeleton does,
Like a body does,
Like masked humans do,
The home haunts.
It has wearied with years,
The sketch pens are tattered on walls,
Walls confide in those, in whom no one else does,
The pieces coming out of those walls,
Falling apart like a old skin,
It has stopped speaking,
It isn’t those walls,
It does not understand,
With it will go away the world,
Where I reside,
With pencils, erasers and sketch pens,
And zigzag lines,
When no one understands, it seems like these walls are failing too,
And hiding it’s failure under those tatters,
It doesn’t haunt anymore.
I have grown.
Not a single stone spoke,
When I asked for the answer,
In this ruthless journey,
And when I sat,
The silence and the wind murmured,
They were not always speechless and hard,
The time made them so, the years turned them,
And this made me ponder, over my destiny,
I am afraid.
A century has gone by
in this monotony,
And yet no change.
There was a house,
Where her hands shivered
Out of the winter
That resided inside her heart.
The cupboard is empty
And garden gone,
She pursed her lips
Her favourite poem,
The last tree was assassinated,
There is a desert
In search of an identity.
Dwells in the crumbs of bread,
Which I ate and was unable to vomit-
Once and then forever,
That’s the way life goes.
Once I heard about her-
She killed herself for reasons,
Unknown or rather dishonourable!
That was one crumb.
He was molested,
This world has many crumbs
and you won’t be hungry anymore.
Shristi Thakur is a poet and an avid reader. She can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org