This room is a coffin.
Empty hearts. Growing nails. Withering flowers.

There stands a statue above the coffin.
A home. Similar to other homes.
We all are pretenders
unless we die.

Statue has a broken brain.
It talks often. To the dead people
materials are important.

Senescence. A big word for a small coffin.
The air gets heavy. Partial cries.
Mourning ends.

A lady walks in. The coffin opens.
She washes her feet at the doorstep.
Tears do not stop
even when your breaths did.

Mourners.
Coffin.
Dead bodies.
Carriage, a house for those who wander.
If not in life
at least in death
let them be happy.

This room is a coffin.
The empty rivers
fill
when mountains shake
due to a knee ache.

We all are
living.
Another planet.
Same coffin.
Only now
The dead are outside.

Carriages. Heavy.
Mother’s mouth.
Father’s eyes.
Coffin is a fire
beneath the ice.

© Sameera Mansuri 2020.

NaPoWriMo Day 9