Family

Morning arrives, yet the light never quite seeps through.
The inner walls—the incorporeal brick, whose cornerstone is a sigh—
echo yesterday's pointless arguments.
Father sits in his chair; his face wears the map of the last century,
where no future exists, only an ledger of unspoken debts.
Mother isn't sewing fabric; she's stitching the torn edges of time;
each stitch traps a fossilized remnant of 'What will the neighbors say?'.
The children don't sleep; they merely cease moving their limbs,
because they know that beneath this vacuum is buried—
the roof hung heavy with dense clusters of unspoken curses.
This structure, this permanent illusion—we call it 'Family';
yet every brick, every cupboard, even the scent of old wood,
is merely a fear we keep alive by pretending to love someone else.
How strange, isn't it? This web is the safest prison.