STOREROOM ~
This little place, so crowded so stacked,
No windows, no doors, all exits it lacked.
No room for air, it's suffocating and denounced,
This storeroom of everything, lost and found.
There are pictures of some people, I knew or I know,
All smiling or crying, they're speaking like a show.
The old ones look cleaner and the new ones on the floor,
The nails are all occupied, and yet many pictures to store.
There is a radio always playing in loops,
Cassettes on top of one another at height it stoops.
This little place is echoing the sounds continuously,
The wall of this room are shivering vigorously.
A dried rose lay dead at the plight of the expanse,
Two, three, oh, many, gardens burnt down in grievance.
Each petal yet holds the smell of the giver in its corpse,
The only odour you smell is of the memories this room locks.
Two colours of inks, sometimes three or more,
Torn old papers, scribbled with happiness to explore.
Talking to creating on it, now even the inks are fading,
But the patch left behind reminds everything I'm evading.
The floor of this chamber is misty by some tears,
Drops of fresh blood, some places they've dried over years.
The walls are pouncing at beats slow and fast,
My storeroom, my heart, is suffering to store the last.
~AGAMYA VERMA
