• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 11
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The Making Of The Quilt

Three rooms
Overlapping concrete and cement
Shadowy long cold empty corridors,
Ending into locked dark wooden doors,
Layered dreams,
Juxtaposed sur-realities.

A patchwork of unfinished stories
Pinned deeply into the stained walls.
Lives sewn together,
With very little consequence,
No witnesses box,
No testimony,
No self-defence.

Running threads intersecting,
They are constantly criss-crossing each other.
Lives embroidered into the building’s fabric,
With not much importance,
No trusting hands,
No scape,
No happy ends.

The rooms look at the same cityscape,
Watching the sun set in the West,
Where the edges of town are fading,
Watching the birth of another night,
Closing the curtains of day light,
While the sun falls down into the deep end,
Into the eternal abyss of the Twilight,


The Making Of The Quilt

While strange people are simultaneously dying,
Inside bored anonymous spaces
Filled with smoke and beige emptiness.

Three juxtaposed floors,
Overlapping silence and normality
Stitched into the brutalist building’s seams,
Overlaid hidden realities,
Endless expectations,
Waiting for the sudden rise of the bloody full moon.

Pinned against the stained walls,
Patchworks of untold stories,
Unknown lives weaved together
By circumstances, chance and chaos,
Hang inside the long melancholic corridors,
Running threads of endless sorrow,
Anonymous faces occupy the silent rooms,
Eating pre-heated dinners and drinking tepid teas,
Watching the sun set diving at the end of the hopeless sky,
Beyond the ghostly cityscape without moon.