Kettle burns black,
The sun is still invisible
Though the night seem soon over,
Fridge left ajar,
Honey to the right,
But the bitter fight has not yet begun
For this cold war may never be won;
Hands keep frigid,
The clock is still unplugged
Though the time may be five,
Pen left clicked,
Paper right beside,
But the blank parchment has not yet diminished
And perhaps this poem will never be finishe