Sometimes I feel the house
Is yet to be a home.
The walls stand stoic engulfing my sorrows,
Not burdened with the  joys
buried behind them.
Have never been alone in it,
Not a single day have I made efforts,
To listen to it’s heartbeat.
Is it a lub-dub as my heart’s rhythm ?
Or does it rhyme with a different tune ?
I know not.
I hope that it speaks to me one day,
As I wait at the threshold to
fathom the language of it’s whispers,
That day the house
Would transform into my home,
And resonate to a heavenly symphony.

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