Musty shelves of despair
Shelter dust,
Descending in layers
Feigning warmth
Of a lost home,
Shrinking comfort
In wood over wood,
Hiding the truth
Of a hearth gone cold,
Firewood ashening
Only in memory
Of sun-kissed wheat,
Of loving hands
Now skeletal;
No tinkering voices
Heard in the dark
Revealing the glow
Of an orange moon;
Comfort of a bed
Straw and hard,
Twisting to the tunes
Of a faraway flute;
What remain are
Shadows of hope
Moving to a stop,
And echoes of a moment
That changed everything.
About the Author
Sunanda Pati is an independent freelance writer who takes each day at a time and believes each word has a story to tell. Mostly on a whim, she blogs at http://methodicallymadme.blogspot.in/ and http://noonewriteway.tumblr.com/. And whenever she gets tired, it means she’s either ready for a run or a spin on her cycle.
