It fills the room and strokes each wall,

a stale and stagnant smoky pall,

as if the seasons stuttered in late autumn

and time's hung out awaiting its post-mortem. 

 

Soft moans escape from pressing lips,

the sound of silk on fingertips,

sweat congregates upon our skin

and emptiness pervades within. 

 

Tomorrow it will start again,

light breaking through the window pane,

unsteady hum of early morning traffic

ascending to this pitch where psychopathic

 

voices whisper, whine and hiss

"We cannot take much more of this!"

Those who gawp too long in mausoleums

become the very stuffing of museums.

 

Sentences both short and long

pace the space where time is hung

and strung out on a line , its fingers flapping:

admit defeat it's to this beat your feet are tapping.