Poetry: Untitled

Light yellowed by dirty glass,

Dust motes glinting in a fading dawn.

Empty room, occupied by one,

Hollow as the occupant.

Silence rings through the halls,

Marred by cats and machinery beneath.

There exists a quandary;

A need for a reason to rise.

Rolling up into activity,

Leaving plenty of time to cook.

Yet, where is the joy in cooking for one?

However, this bed is uncomfortable,

Saturated as it is with so many tears.

Life is nothing but a shell,

When there is no love to share.

What is the value of a day,

If there is no one to share a smile and kiss?

There is a pointless pursuit of a day,

When your arms are empty.

Love ebbs when there is no outlet.

Idleness is a disease.

The former consumes the spirit

As the latter assaults the body.

Contentedness is a fallacy.

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