It was covered in the soot
Of your rage
Charcoal black without a hint
Of a mild lamp like shade.
It smelled like a tray full of sins
Piled since a thousand yesterdays
But never once cleaned
By a pair of eager hands.
It felt like patch of arid soil
Thirsty for some drops of renewal
Some beads of a pleasant season.
Without a grip of content
And inner control
A place of reflections and growth
Became a site rife with
The clamour of shattering glasses and cups,
And a bleeding red, wounded future.












