This empty house…

These silent shadows creep upon me,
Like spirits of the night;
Lonely, quiet…

Why does it still ache?
Every time I am awake,
And when I dream of you at night,
Screaming in my plight.

A tragic broken thread of teary, kohl eyed dreams;
Is my play on a stage,
In the theatre of twisted themes.

Why is there such madness in the air,
Like the violent turn of winds when I first saw you;
Found you breaking like a dandelion in the storm of my arms…

Why do I spend my time trying to find you under water?
Or under a suffocating pillow,
Or under the enormous weight of my eyelids,
When I pretend to lie asleep, every night.

And now I have become this empty house,
My seven layers of flesh,
Are merely walls holding pieces of you,
What you left behind,
In a thousand photo frames;
My eyes can’t look into anymore…

In this empty house of my flesh,
There are only echoes of your voice,
And the stale wind of your strawberry sighs…

I am breathing what a broken dandelion exhales, before it gives itself away to the wind…
Waiting to be torn into so many shreds of myself,
No one can count them…
But all I wish is to be carried away with you,
Forever, in pieces…

Still I find nothing but the caging walls of this empty house,
That once trembled with your name,
Now standing still,
Waiting to crumble with me;
On the day I surrender,
So we can be free.

Siddharth Pathak
19th December, 2011



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