the little room
the one with the small window, yes
laptop with mechanical sounds
plays soft music
to some strange obsession.
a wall of posters and notes
(full of hope)
painted over by the pink shade of failure.
the concrete beneath is porous
with hollows and entryways
to the steel;
it’s rotting away slowly.
the water of the sorrowful house
(full of fear)
tinted the red of rusted anger
eats away at the foundations.
the paint peels away
though it is not the only one
dying of neglect.
the broken dining table
(full of grief)
lies with no rainbow fruits.
it sits still.
still as the house.
still as the little room.
still. deathly still.
by rudraksh dange
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