Of late my heart feels like a house
that's been left locked-up and empty too long
Visitors appear occasionally
Some to see if they can live here
Others to satisfy some arbitrary curiosity
They leave marks in the wrinkle-less sheets of dust
Only for time to smoothen them out afresh
The ghosts of the past never leave though
They are here to stay and to drive the visitors away
They are the friendly kind though, even with their haunting ways,
They keep the ghosts of tomorrow and the marks the dust won't protect at bay