Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Room No.13



A dirty yellow door
Age old lock
Ancient design
That's Room No.13

Push the door
It opens noisily
The room is empty.

A sofa-torn with years
Silently waits for the invisible ghost.

A telephone aside
Half a century old
Dust settled comfortably
It's getting a bit cold.

Nobody calls anymore
Nobody picks up the phone
It just sits- a solitary ally
Reminiscing of the Age of Gold.

The table-where the phone sits
Seems burdened.

Weight of phone, weight of years
And all the weight it had to bear
Of blood, violence, horror and fear
In this very room.

A little daylight streams forth
From the lonely window at the top.
The rays hit the cobwebs
And get lost in the darkness inside.

The ghost of a room sits
Loneliness-its companion
And darkness lights it up
In the brightness of the New Moon.


2 comments:

Mr. A. said...

now...i loved this poem...after reading all the poems...things is the one...THE ONE...amazing...amazing...

*bows down*

the silent observer said...

thank you soo much akash. :))