So, this spider was crawling up the wall,
The wall, which had its cosmetics coming off.
The wall, which was mum.
It had seen much.
I was there, under this curst ceiling fan,
Which was creaking monotonously.
The portraits and the tapestries,
With the rusted nails and hooks under.
The sedimentation of soot,
On the walls,
On the ceiling,
And on the pictures.
Except this curst ceiling fan.
Was in its nothingness.
As if, they were looking at me in awe,
As if, I was a trespasser.
Unanticipated, I heard rumblings,
The wind in the room suddenly came to life.
The Air, spoke something into my ears,
The frequency went up,
And up, and up.
Ultrasonic vibrations, were those.
The portraits glared at me,
I was becoming anxious,
As well as having eerie feels.
My eyes glued on something,
How four score and seven revolutions of this planet back,
A 16 year old boy had perished in this very room,
Under this very curst fan.
Now, not everyone can live for a hundred and three years,
And remember an incident.
…we do exist,
We defy science.