The Guest Room Of The Mind Poem by Mohammad Muzzammil

I keep a chair pulled out for them,
In the quiet corners of my head,
Where the light is soft and permanent
And nothing left is unsaid.

I find them in the hallway of a dream,
Or sitting by a sudden, silent fire;
I ask them, 'Where is it you go?
When the sun pulls back its wire? '

Do you walk through fields of silver light?
Or are you the hum within the bone?
Are you the weight of the evening air,
Or have you found a house to call your own?

They never answer with a map,
Or name a street, or count the miles;
They only lean into the thought,
With knowing, weathered smiles.

They are made of mist and memory now,
A choir that sings without a sound;
I find them where I lost them last—
In the only place they can be found.