It's coldness that sickens her
the most as it crept in through
the inattentive walls and
started to lurk like a ghost.

It's coldness that sickens her the most;
it wove webs around her thoughts,
and put her brilliant furnace out.
It wore her old silk robes
-the older ones, you know;
those that once danced
in the closet of love.

Today she can finally sit
on the torpor's throne
and wear the lethargy's crown
as she's been admitted there
through the steps of indifference.

I trudge along the corridor
yet again,
a deserted, fractured space
its pillars crumbling
almost grumbling
by intrusion of steps I tread
creaking in the silence
where once birds chirped
now only a lone shadow walks
on the walls
upon which were painted murals
of alpha, beta, erotica
now covered in the soot
of flickering flames defying wind
embers turned to ashes
and in the ashes i smell gasoline