And there are times when I find those shelves empty,
reflecting the desolate image, the mirrors seems to have acquired,
and beside it, I see, a rail of ants trotting around the ceramics misplaced,
though not in display, they seem to portray my colourless taste.

At the centre resides my desk, unaligned, drafted like my head,
I feel stricken to see the pen losing ink, when I have not even grabbed it yet,
surprisingly, the drawers are arranged, but my mother won't see the insides,
no wonder...