The Spirit of a Writer
The smell of ink on the wooden table enticed my nose to the abandoned house
Where ants prey on tattered slip of papers lying on bare floor
And broken pens of various colors assembled in a tomato tin
In a house with no human
I can feel the spirit of a writer
The curtains closed tightly to stop the sun from spying
The breeze kiss the tip of some papers gently into the outer house
There! I saw letters of different font
Like the wall was hungry to be touched
Words filled it to the brim
It was colorful like rainbows of different shades
In a house with no human
I smell the ink of a writer
I feel life
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