By Divya Devarajan
Right amidst the lush green patch near the park
is one vacant house, closed and sealed
Like an useless piece of craft work, like a dirt in the glass
It's walls are painted in yellow and blue
Might've been painted with hope, maybe a tint of sadness-
as 'House for sale', the front board reads
The house was once a home to a man
and his woman, in old age- in forever'age
They lived in there, they said..they died in there, they said.
You see cobwebs all around; sticking memories, the stories
interwined in it's walls, a shared laugh or two-
and the scent of solitude, of desperation lingers deep around
The door opens with a creak, and it welcomes you to the eeriness
A chill goes through your heart, settling in your spine,
as it's cold, as though you're stuck in a morgue!
The curtain picks up the wind and you shield your face from it,
not quick enough to stop the smell of death that's stuck on it since long
and you see them standing, looking out from the same window, waiting
The room is filled with books, two lying face down
A bookmark sits at the edge, the book sad with unfulfilled dreams
The clothes are still folded and neatly kept, never to be worn again, never to be warm
They died happily, they said..but all you see is the withered parts of soul
Their handprints on the counter, a pair of glasses on the shelf
A flashlight near the bedside and an earmuff, all torn
Out from the balcony, two pigeons keenly stares
with curious eyes, asking why now?, when it's bereft
when no eyes are dry with waiting, with no face to break into a smile
When no hands to bring you a hug, nor one life to hold you with their wings-
and you still breath in the scent of long lost memories
of savoured childhood days and of adventurous adolescence
You close your eyes to get back to those time,
and you feel their warmth, the ever enveloping shield!