In this room of empty reveries,
I waste the hours in denial.
sitting on a wooden creaking chair,
I stare at the cracks on the walls.
the familiar veins
turn to blur
in my charcoal eyes.
the vanilla smell of old books
blends with bitter scent of coffee;
an unnamed mesh flows in pungent air,
laments my languid darkened days.
The closed door wonders:
Will he ever touch its rusty lock
step out to the world,
let the sun kiss his cheek,
and fill his life with warmth?
19/03/2016 © Waseem Sherif
Branched out from Broken