Fighting a losing battle with my spirit everyday

How I would try to transform my house to a home

Would search for a way all over; asked strangers who didn’t care

The dictionary defines house as ‘a building to reside’

And that was precisely what I returned to every night

After the tiring work would tie my patience

And test it on motley of characters

Masked or faceless; shrewd or tactless

I would climb the stairs, dragging my limbs like that luggage

Too heavy to carry yet couldn’t be left behind

Slumped on the sofa, I’d gaze at the city lights far below

Till the oven would curtly declare thrice that it had done its daily job


I remember how one full-moon night you quietly tip-toed

With your muddy paws into my sanitized life

Cowed under my car, soaked and quaking in the unseasonal rain

Separated from loved ones, lonesome and wretched

Hungry for some warmth and amongst cold strange faces

It still astonishes me how alike we both used to be

And also how things can change in a night


Now every day, I return to a home

Which the dictionary says is ‘where one's domestic affections are centered’

I often wonder who rescued whom?






A writer and an artist, Ankita Sharma resides in India. She has authored five titles. Her poems and stories have been published in various anthologies and lit mags including 3moonmag, BRAG, Versification, Green Ink Poetry, Sunnyg (radio show) and others. Her artworks have appeared on the cover pages of a few Indian and international books.