When evening falls and work is through,
The office hushes, silence grew,
I dim the lights, the glow retreats,
And slump into my chair’s defeat.

In twilight’s blur, I fix my gaze,
The doorway looms through vacant haze.
I strain to stall time’s steady creep,
To crack the drone of routine’s sweep.

To bear the ache that never shifts,
No break, no tide, no fleeting lifts.
Inside, outside — the same dull frame,
Life blurs to gray, a muted name.

A song, a prayer, or fleeting trance,
Not meant for peace or cosmic dance—
No gods, no calm, no vast design,
Just balm to hold this void divine.

For meaning frays when scenes stay still,
A stagnant pulse, a muted thrill.
A pause, a hush, a numb delay,
Where inner whispers fade away—

Or spill in senseless, drifting streams,
A fleeting death within these dreams.
Or brief immortal masquerade,
Where “one-one-one” drones on, unswayed.

A godlike perch, perhaps, to sit,
In endless loops, no spark, no split.
If joy is found where time suspends,
And leaves no mark, no arc, no ends—

Then here it lies, this hollow shell,
Where years entwine, and echoes dwell.
Forever trapped, or so it seems,
In this eternal, lifeless dream.