The taciturn
sky — distant, too 
distant—administers the sadness
below, where typewriters, 
and inspiration await 
me on my 
table. Waiting for
romanticism and OMGs
where they were never needed, 
and of sloppy undertones that mean nothing but a show of normalcy,
to radiate light in parsimonious rays like a lone bulb in the mist filled room during morning time