There’s something about dilapidated buildings,
the forgotten inhabitants and era.
The cracks spreading its roots like branches.
Tales of lost time, traditions and terra.
What grandeur it must have possessed?
Who lived within those red brick walls?
Just huge portraits are all that’s left.
No defense works when tragedy befalls.
Those who trudged on the long corridors,
carrying the burden of power or sin.
The women of the Manor veiled from the world,
peeping through the blinds- hiding their chagrin.
The Red Manor stands tall- its expanse mum.
Haunted by forgotten tales and tourist humdrum.
Quietly witnessing the passage of time.
Bearing the remnants of a beauty sublime.
I’ve been asked why I write sad poetry,
Never been asked what makes me sad.
Why don’t all lines end in perfect symmetry?
Blank verse is incomplete, boring and bad.
I’ve been judged for my plain appearance.
What colour am I ? I’m brown with specks of black.
I’m fat – that’s acknowledgement of my existence.
Hypocrites think I’m just another joke to crack.
Perhaps I’m an old dusty book in a forgotten library,
Yellow with age, stained and a little moth eaten.
My words sound either fictional or too real and scary.
Emotionally manipulated and seldom mentally beaten.
I’ve been asked why I’m silent, cold and lonely.
No, your love doesn’t fill the cracks in my heart.
For I know what you crave – Alas! Just half of me.
And I’m not just flesh and bones – I’m a spiral work of art.
Even the deepest moments of silence have a sound.
The blotchy moon often gets a cloudy halo around.
As I try to soak into the drizzle of silver silence,
sealed lips struggle to conceal my heart’s blatant defiance.
Like a stubborn child on the shore I write my thoughts on sand,
unintimidated by the waves that fail to understand.
Silence gave a sigh and slipped into a solemn slumber of solace,
leaving me behind – cold and lonely in my thought’s embrace.
Seeping through the chaos of thoughts I silently rejoice,
my heart’s hum when this mind is mum – my soul’s muted voice.