Decay of the urban kinds
By Meghana K
1 May 2008
We build dreams in houses we know
With the light coming through
The small shaded window
With duo toned, textured walls that radiate liaisons
Of those who have been there
For countless generations
The damp that creeps in through the old moss covered ceiling
Ladens the air heavy
With a moist dull feeling
The old gate with a creaking, faulty, oil painted hinge
Is wilting on its own
with a soft rusty brown tinge
The paint that chips off flaky and dry
Exposes the bricks bare
Makes my heart cry
The old cracked and crooked pipes plead
As they are let open into the hollow paving
Let out to bleed
The drama of the urban decay within me
Unfolds and divulges the vile side
But I let it be
But you, my friend, should find the sky so vast
That sights itself through the little window
And get away from the ominous past...
unlike those, who build houses in dreams they know....
