The air is empty and still,
Coating the room with its sterility.
Even the dust is inert, settled upon the windowsill.
The ground is sturdy, immovable beneath me,
Stoic, resolved in perpetuity
Furniture sits idle, unoccupied,
Unmoving, abandoned by something in endless ambiguity
That is –
And has somehow always been.
To die, to dry, to leave nothing behind.
It almost implies there was a time,
That something was alive.
No people visit, no animal crawls
My hands – They do nothing at all.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 2:25 PM UTC
The air is empty and still,
Coating the room with its sterility.
Even the dust is inert, settled upon the windowsill.
The ground is sturdy, immovable beneath me,
Stoic, resolved in perpetuity
Furniture sits idle, unoccupied,
Unmoving, abandoned by something in endless ambiguity
That is –
And has somehow always been.
To die, to dry, to leave nothing behind.
It almost implies there was a time,
That something was alive.
No people visit, no animal crawls
My hands – They do nothing at all.