By Omar Anees
Once, empty spaces meant something.
An inspiration to create beauty and desire.
Like a canvas to a painter,
Or a blank paper to a poet.
The naked walls, halls, and corridors call to me,
They want to pose for me.
They want me to etch them in the memories
Of their occupants, who would revel in their beauty.
The walls, halls, and corridors tell me
That I am their bee-
Without me, they may not bloom.
Without me, they may not dazzle.
I feel like God-
My creations, not in the vicinity.
But I know,
They have a life and a soul of their own.
I worshipped emptiness so deeply,
I looked for them everywhere.
Open skies, barren lands, and bare necks
Lit my soul, unfailingly.
Over time, our affair grew potent.
We became inseparables.
Like hearing is to a musician,
Or sense of taste is to a chef.
They seeped through me like cancer cells.
Now, they own a part of me.
As I once owned a part of them.
A coup can be expected anytime.
Now, empty spaces mean nothing.
No longer an inspiration to create.
I am no canvas nor a blank paper.
Though I am naked and hollow now.
But I am posing.
For whom or for what, I do not know.
I do not want to be etched in the memories
Of their occupants, who no longer revel in their beauty.
Blind spots, we are.
Forgotten in the pages of memory.
Though we are common and visible,
To the keen eyes, to the keen minds.