House Of Secrets

By Arra Shashank

Eleven bodies, eleven scarves,

Like the roots of the Bunyan tree,

Hanging,

Finding their root underground,

Their head of the family;

Poetically justified ritual,

When the father died, the eldest son ran away,

Four male and seven female,

The responsibility of eleven souls

Fell on the mentally broken,

He prayed the God and tried to walk in the dark cave,

Everything brightened and worked,

Until the death did its part,

Like a twenty-year-old speeds

Thinking everything is under control,

Until death does its part,

We walk on a thin rope of truth,

With blinded minds and broken souls,

House of secrets, the horror,

Keeps me awake in the dark!

By Arra Shashank