Musty carpets. Cigarette burnt sheets. Smell of abandonment.
Cry of dead silence in an old library.
A rustic wooden door,
An old forgotten home with broken walls and bricks,
Dried lifeless plants turned crispy and brown in broken pots.
Does anyone live inside?
It looks like it,
There’s a broomstick outside.
Probably, an old woman?
Probably, a family with too many mouths to feed?
Probably, a man who waited too long for his loved one to drop by?
Probably, a recluse content within himself?
What is the story,
Behind this mysterious attractive door.
It doesn’t matter if the night is dark
When there are vintage lanterns,
To light up the streets.
The mountains creaked in the valley.
Feeling old, sighing!
What if they chose to,
Lay down and rest?
Many of us will end up crying.
Stand tall, oh high and mighty!
For the selfish needs of humanity.
A drop of water trickled
Down a rusty tap.