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No motion, no sound, no energy... just emptiness.
My dimming light shines on the old, scratched coffee table
Barely able to hold the deformed wooden bowl,
The dead flowers in the foggy, streaked vase,
The used candle that is nothing more than a little stub,
The half empty tea mug resting on the flowered coaster,
And the ancient, tea stained books.
I hear nothing, just the gasping howls of late evening wind.
It’s so quiet that I feel like I’m a lost star surrounded by peace.
Two tweed chairs and a faded yellow sofa are near.
Old, dusty cushions struggle to stand up straight.
A cream colored blanket stretches itself out on the sofa.
All this screened in overlooking the tranquil view of the yard.
I’m just a hanging lamp but I know someone will come.
To either read, write, or just think.
They always do.