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Unchanging Solitude

Unchanging Solitude

Image // Pixabay

Three hours after midnight,
he reached the quiet edifice.
With crossed arms and light footsteps,
he walked past the threshold.
Into the dimly lit alley,
strides turned left, then upward.
At the fourth level,
there were no signs of life.
Keys jingled, knob clicked, door opened.

Darkness welcomed the solitary soul.
His inured hand fumbled on the opaque wall.
White illumination flooded the room.
He shut the door behind,
and triple-locked himself inside.
The room presented itself still,
unchanged since he left it in the afternoon.

Four chairs were in sight, all empty.
Two books rested on the table,
one had bookmark inserted in its halves.
A notebook sat an inch beside,
in its spring attached a slender object with graphite inside.
The shiny tiled floor was blank,
it reflected nothing but the light above.
The bed three steps away was vacant.
Nobody was beneath the bed.
Nobody was under the table.

He turned the radio on,
and tuned Moonlight Serenade in.
He poured water in the boiler,
and powdered milk in the mug.
Moments later, the silence was broken.
Sweet, classic melodies enveloped the room.
By the south window,
a golden yellow post lamp brightened the space below.
The world was in deep slumber;
the world was peaceful.
But when the dawn breaks,
a world in utter disguise unfolds.

In his cloistered chamber, he felt at ease.
Before the mirror, he can have his soul bared.
On the cold floor, he can dance free.
Within his four impenetrable walls,
he can sing aloud.
No one sees, no one hears.
Nobody laughs, nobody teases, nobody judges.
Sequestered actions desire to please no one.
Spontaneity is oblivious to approval.

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