The walls are pale yellow.
The colour of thoughts
numbed into oblivion.
The ceiling fan murmurs a chorus,
to the hum of a sporadic fly.
A voice drones on…
and on… and on…
A voice drones on,
like a gently rocking cradle,
hanging from a bough of disinterest,
carried by the force of its own momentum -
never has reason to fall.
Numerous little lights.
Smothered
till they flicker on and off -
and die.
The walls are pale yellow.
The colour of thoughts
numbed into oblivion.
