Seven levels up,
Resting within the ugliest of buildings,
Was my humble abode of misery.
When it wasn’t raining,
The clogged drain made sure,
To keep the floor from feeling useless.
Chanting at night,
Was my elderly neighbour,
Convinced her husband was calling out,
From the heavens above.
Sometimes I’d chant along,
Letting her know,
She wasn’t alone when people called her crazy.
I was too lazy,
With how the air-conditioner had failed me,
The lady chanted,
Sharing her wisdom.
Broken windows are a blessing,
Reminding me of how comfort could be blinding,
Not too be misunderstood as misery.
The seventh floor suddenly didn’t appear to be so gloomy,
Upon the departure of my dear chanting lady,
Mighty neighbourly of her,
Leaving me her lonely air-conditioner,
As a reminder of how we’d kept each other company.