My home

My home
has become unbearable
words, full of words
lifeless words
they don’t carry any feeling
or have I become too old
that I should leave
and rebuild my own.

Since when did my abode
become so cold
no room for togetherness
no space for friendship
housing jealousy, hatred
competition, in a jungle of gadgets
mindless hands and feet have frozen
all organs lazy, slumber
in figures and numbers
counting days.

Words, words, only words
no warmth
travelling inside the mind
like worms
plastic wings of nightingales
agonizing odor of flowers
roses and blue pimpernels
in tired, tried and tied-up gardens
that yearn to be lost in the forests.

Artificial has the most troubling start
it’s ‘art’ with which the world
is losing its heart
unable to breathe, rest or roam.

Yet with hope,
we built this home
to live
it is hard to believe
from whose confines
now, I wish to leave.