The clock ticks in an empty room.
We sit and stare at the peeling wallpaper.
Not a word spoken in an afternoon,
The silence grows taller than the skyscraper.
A dog barks at a passing cloud.
Nothing is wrong, yet the air hangs heavy.
Our thoughts wander away like a crowd
Of ghosts at a funfair that\'s empty.
The coffee cold in the mug,
The newspaper unread on the floor;
We contemplate the snug fit
Of the spider in the corner.
The TV mutters static rhymes.
Nothing is wrong, and yet all askew.
Our eyes drift to the window many times
To watch the sky forgetting its blue.
Lost in the maze of what was once new,
Love lies napping on the couch.
With nothing wrong, we\'ve nothing to pursue,
Where even whispers seem too loud.