The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey,
A listless sigh upon the weary air,
And nothing calls nor bids me look away.
The morning slumps into the long delay
Of afternoon, a weight I cannot bear—
The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey.
The books lie closed, their words have nought to say,
Their stories stale, their meanings worn and bare,
And nothing calls nor bids me look away.
The world outside, though bright, is cold and fey,
Its voices lost in echoes of despair—
The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey.
Desire and will like spectres fade away,
Dissolving in the hush of stagnant air,
And nothing calls nor bids me look away.
So life dissolves into this slow decay,
A silent curse, a half-remembered prayer—
The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey,
And nothing calls nor bids me look away.
