Shore

A small cottage on the shore

Standing straight seeing two dumb people

There is no talk

An unseen path

And an ocean waiting for a reply

With a couple of bird’s melodies

We are supposed to write stories

We are dancing in a blue dress and afternoon sky

All are stored in room number 919

 

I still hold the sparkle

And I have many questions inside the bottle

But I never poured it on the ground

Because my pillar crumbled down

Several things full of blaming and denying

And all sentences in my mind has no answer

 

In room number 919

I standing alone staring at a figure of misery

While witnessing the funeral of an ending story

My feelings are dead and empty

Then I am praying silently

And celebrating without bleeding and sobbing

A collection of analog photographs fills the space

They seemed to scream, "Deep condolences for the soul that never came home."