In a house

The stairs are trees are flowers

At the end they are all mud

The rain falls on the roof

And dug holes like a bullet

No blood, the house is not alive

Bricks are feathers are birds

All alive

The house flies over lakes

Of lilies

The windows are open

Nobody lives inside

The furniture is stolen

Little scratches on the floor

The floor is the skin

Pale yellow

The house has a heart

But no beat

It smells of you

When you are not here

Your perfume

The house smells of you

Listen, the house

Smells of you

Since a long time.

Pic: Google

Poem (c) Dabblerscribbles, Abhishek kumar