ROOM ON THE WEST
Tall stood the walls made of bricks and graffiti
Inside it is a ceaseless hall and two rooms in a peculiar shade
I find myself amid the hall
while the Marigold inside me grows
I espy the west and I espy the east
As if I could disintegrate the wooden barrier
With the strength of my glistering eyes
Thoughts that don't believe in tranquillity gyred around me
Is it a good lookout?
Enough with the contemplation,
I took one step ahead
I closed my fist
And I put it against the exquisite facade
Soon I hear the sashay walk of some stiletto heel from the other side of the door
The louder the footsteps, the faster my heartbeat
I watch the door I see before me swift inside
One tall lady stands there
She shakes my frost
covered hand,
As I enter the happy
go lucky crowd.
Folks with verdicts and glorious togs
Cheery laughs and tempting smiles
Walls that are made out of gold
And crimson curtains that hang
from
the rod
Like lingering blithesome memories
Scents that only go so far
Oh it's a celebration with no occasion
An intimidating voice within me
Forces me to cross the threshold and tour the room on the west
Long I stood and then went exploring
Away goes the so
called
elation and glee
Awaits the hefty doorknob
What I see before me now is the calamity after the storm
A vacant room that is occupied by lonely phantoms
Spider
webs and an ineffable mess
No one to welcome you
except for the tedious feelings
Walls made of nothing but faith
And fragmented tiles
Torn and musty curtains
With half
broken skylights
Dirt on the shelf
Perhaps this room is history
My nature of not vacating inceptions undone
Forces me to stay and explore
The longer I wait, the lonelier it gets
I hear sounds of music and
merriment
from
the room nearby
This is not the long haul
Only a matter of time.
My curious eye catches the sight of a knife lying on the floor
If some other day, I'd walk away
But this time, I chose to stay
I lift the razor
edged knife up
I wonder if I could put it to some good use
I make my way to the filthy wall
Write on it the words you're reading now
Could the room nearby tolerate the blossoming of this vile rose?
"This is the strength of solitude"
I whisper to myself
Tall stood the walls made of bricks and graffiti
Inside it is one vacant room for artistry
And it's all yours to decide
Myiesha is a 14-year-old girl who is currently living in India. She is very passionate about poetry, and has been writing since she was 6-7 years old. She has had some of her poems end up in local/school magazines and has seized the first position in various competitions.