Anachronism

#Anachronism#

The afternoon winds slither across
Beetle squeaks echo through windows
Light doesn’t reflect off the glass
Or the railings made of brass
Broken walls remain dusty yet unfazed
The gates stand tall despite being razed
The soul, icy
Timeless amidst decay
Trapped within
Nods in dismay

Hear the pained croaks,
the groans of the metal crumbling, fading
Do the walls need paint to cover their wounds
Or have they learned to silently fit in
Hidden away, in the camouflage
With creepers growing around about
Witness everything, blending in
Just like the soul inside silently watching
People walk past, while the dust off their footsteps flies over to the house
The dust settles overtime
Over the house, from another time

The abandoned house, in the middle of the street
Holding wreckage of an unknown tragedy
Forgotten and lost to the spirals of time
Unbeknownst to travellers in today’s time
Never realising it has a niche of its own too
The burnt house guards something which was once precious too
A mind of its own
A sparkle, a rhythm, thinking anew
Overdue it’s time
Barely alive
But hidden inside
The wails of which couldn’t cross the line

The soul which lay inside
Imbued an ideology of a different time
Had been confined by the colloquial minds
Stones, sticks and blazes were lit
To mould the soul and not let it apply its wit
And thus the house suffered the wrath
Burnt and churned into crisp ash
That was the story of the abandoned house
Doused and killed the odd ones out
But the soul did survive
Haunting the place where it failed to thrive
And so the people walk past, fast
Impervious to the shrieks of the soul left behind by the Holocaust

Alas, now it falls to the rust
With a plague all around, completely unjust
And the gates which once stood glistening
Now lie hanging about

And from inside the halls, the soul shall pray
To the ashes that form from the rust in the rain
With a question that shall always remain
From which the answers shall always refrain

Are we lost too like the soul in the anachronistic house?
With our mindfulness burnt
To contain our thoughts
Maybe I’m lost too
In the folds of time
With a mask moulded
To the norms of the modern time
So tell me, you, the person reading this
Do we hold ourselves to the shackles of a burnt casket
Or can we truly make beauty come out of ashes?