Harboring in a soulless house, hoping I can find some solace from the quiet corridor, only the ticking hand of a clock speaks, but those are words i can’t dispher, I’ve been angelic enough to write poetry with an adjustable view on the symphony of love, i pace myself through these abused corridors, you can hear the floor creak underneath but still those are words im not familiar with,
as I tiptoe so these walls wouldn’t hear me, but eggshells are meant to be broken, so how can I be so foolish to think otherwise, every twist of a doorknob predicts another opening into a room we can’t expect of anything, but the unknown outcome,
these broken windows in loop spring, allowing the wind to shy its way through, and it covers my existence with a bitter feeling of coldness nestling all the way down to my feet, leaving my body to reject its human nature to adopt for survival, how can I color these blends walls, to make it lively, how can I love this abused house that’s been abandoned for years?
