It’s an instinctive unease
A lone typewriter sits in neglect
The dust settles into the keys

Everything in the room seemed to freeze
Lost to time in a state of disconnect
It’s an instinctive unease

The lever not set to release
Leaving the platen a dented wreck
The dust settles into the keys

The air hangs stagnant, not so much as a breeze
Leaving the room stale and depressed
It’s an instinctive unease

Some long forgotten face left these
Unused ribbons of ink and stacks of papers forever unchecked
The dust settles into the keys

A scrapped song begging for a reprise
Or a manuscript destined for reject
It’s an instinctive unease
The dust settles into the keys