Midnight Blues with a Hint of Crimson

(crackle of branches against the window)

a forlorn house with forlorn people,
the window knows, so do the branches;
but when it comes to the neighbours;
ohh the awkward silences, of awkwardness…

(howling dogs, keeps the stars awake)

the untended garden, dead balcony plants,
with doors closed shut, yet the story, evident;
an army of crimson dots along the mirror,
a requiem for the lost days, bygone gaze.

(click-clack runs the drops; tap, tap, tap)

‘dip your hands in the vermillion water,’
handprints call the wall their home;
question: whose hands, were they?
they seem happy, almost smiling…

(people used to live here, at one point in time)

‘where are they now, at this point of time?’
a house abandoned is not a home abandoned;
but the stories? how can a story ever be abandoned?
the story continues, hands or no hands, dots or no dots.