Writers pastime

There are times I have seen

where the stars lack in there luster

water just isn’t wet enough

and food can taste quite bland

even color is just a hue

and music a wavering empty note.

It is here that I am sitting

alone in some hazy lit room

looking through a piece of glass

reflecting on the illusion before me.

How I wish so very much

knuckles pressured white

lips pressed with indignation

and the brows rest in question

at the subtle ticks of passing bye.

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