It fills the room and strokes each wall,

a stale and stagnant smoky pall;

as if the season always were late autumn

and time lay still awaiting it's post - mortem. 

Soft moans escape from rambling lips,

the sound of silk on fingertips,

sweat congregates upon my skin

yet emptiness pervades within.

From reveries we re-emerge, 

our revelries too well rehearsed.

Tomorrow it will start again,

light breaking through the window pane,

the unsteady hum of early morning traffic

ascending to this pitch where psychopathic

voices whisper, whine and hiss,

"We cannot take much more of this!"

There are those who gawped too long in mausoleums

became themselves 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