The books are lined like soldiers,
Postcards litter the walls;
All signs are here, all lights are on
But is there anybody home?
The typewriter is clicked shut,
Gathering dust with the pens
And untouched paper which ache
To be held, used, or thrown
In madness, rage, or inspiration;
The kettle awaits its use
And the cigarettes sit unsmoked,
Here in the bed she lies alone:
Stopped, shattered with the choice
To eat or write or work
When really there's nothing to do,
She's drowning in this unknown.
No life, or sound in her breath
Glazed eyes; her empty head
Makes no mark upon the pillow,
Her bones lifeless as chrome
A week or two to pass; time
Dripping like sand in hours and
Minutes so hollow, so worthless:
A skeleton, a whale prone
Upon the bed, a shadow, she
Lingers like smoke; indecisive
She waits for purpose and to find
That dream and meaning of her own.
*© Tara India