Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Neither dusk nor dawn
finds its way to her room
sun dies an early death here,
squeezed out of its breath
by two facades of buildings,
standing face to face,
but not talking ever.

These claustrophobic chambers,
like forgotten Dagshai cells,
drenched in a sepia hue --
she calls it home.

Sometimes when a beam escapes,
momentarily from its clutches of concrete,
and falls on the parapet,
she cranes her head,
trying to catch the sun,
on her face, eyes and neck.

Laying out her soul,
soaked in a rage less silence,
Like an old book, 
wet and cold,
she tries to store the warmth within,
for the many winters that are yet to come.

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