The static hum of the sleeping screen,
A moonless night, a world unseen.
The furnace breathes its low refrain,
A quiet pattern in the brain.
A clock-hand sweeps its silent arc,
A match is struck to light the dark.
The kettle sings its single note,
A ghost inside a winter coat.
The floorboards tell a tired tale,
A whispered wind, a distant sail.
We build our walls from dust and bone,
And call the fragile structure home.
