As I sit silently,
Observing my room darkening around me,
Hearing the muffled murmurs of passerby,
I wait for the clock to strike upon the nine
for that is when I will be fulfilled.

There is little light
save for the fading light from my window
and the light by which I write
these musings seem dry and empty
of the vigor and posterity of my past.

Austerity and harshness replace
my normally warm and delicate features,
and even my writing feels estranged from me.

My hands that were my hands
do not spring forth a wealth of creativity;
stifling darkness surrounds.

Wallowing is not in my nature
as I remind myself,
and yet here I still lay.