DREAM HOUSE

My dream house; palatial, proud and especial

Stands stagnant day by day:

Calling me with an untold fascination,

I feel the ethereal beauty; and pangs of pain.

For eluding me access wherein,

To the magical indoors; majestic and reserved.

It is real, not fancy bred;

A living record of feelings; mysterious,

Bottled up in a young sensitive mind.

For none else knows the language of dreams

Counting up to the feelings of a life-time.

Casually, I found it, to my dismay

A play of will or sheer intuition.

I wink at it; from among the noisy crowd,

Not a chance left, to suck out its splendour.

A verdant, rustic, garden in front,

Exuding an air of love and warmth,

The blue flowers withering down;

And the red flowers blooming up.

The moving witnesses of a sad story;

Buried for ever in the damsel’s mind.