There you sit, ever so serene. Watching the goings-on of night, Through that sheer slate of window glass.
You survey the blackness of streets, The colorless forest, Beams of light reducing the sky, To pockets of time With names not unforgotten But unknown.
You try, and move, and plead, To write your thinkings down, The corner mirror showcasing your struggles, Etching black and blue, Making permanent what is your heart.
The colorless forest is boring, The beams of light, rather overused, And pockets of time are quite unclear.
Useless, these efforts are. Your white paper Retains the whiteness it was made of, Links your etchings to nothing But confusion, While it laughs at your efforts.
And there you remain, ever so serenely. Perhaps tomorrow, You can try again.
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