When evening falls and work is through

When evening falls and work is through,
The office hushes, silence grew,
I dim the lights, the glow retreats,
And slump into my chair’s defeat.

In twilight’s blur, I fix my gaze,
The doorway looms through vacant haze.
I strain to stall time’s steady creep,
To crack the drone of routine’s sweep.

To bear the ache that never shifts,
No break, no tide, no fleeting lifts.
Inside, outside — the same dull frame,
Life blurs to gray, a muted name.

A song, a prayer, or fleeting trance,
Not meant for peace or cosmic dance—
No gods, no calm, no vast design,
Just balm to hold this void divine.

For meaning frays when scenes stay still,
A stagnant pulse, a muted thrill.
A pause, a hush, a numb delay,
Where inner whispers fade away—

Or spill in senseless, drifting streams,
A fleeting death within these dreams.
Or brief immortal masquerade,
“alone-alone” drones on, unswayed.

A godlike perch, perhaps, to sit,
In endless loops, no spark, no split.
If joy is found where time suspends,
And leaves no mark, no arc, no ends —

Then here it lies, this hollow shell,
Where years entwine, and echoes dwell.
Forever trapped, or so it seems,
In this eternal, lifeless dream.