The Room Is Cold

Cold in hues of shivers and chills hang above the unmade bed,
Invisible tendrils of bitter seeping into the heavy air.
Ice sheets strewn across the grey-white fjords of unkempt.
In a slit between the unopened curtains, a brittle shard of light pierces through –
And dust twirling like flurries of snowflakes in storms, drift across infinities; gyrating from brilliance to obscurity in evanescence.
The steady ringing of silence clings to the peeling walls, leaking onto the floor – like a heavy fog it’s suffocating.
The absence of ticking or tocking, buzzing or breathing is nauseating, it’s Schrödinger’s room in here; midnight, morning, evening, dusk.
Everything and yet nothing – the paradox of quantum mechanics encased behind a door.
On the bedside table empty glasses left in disarray; an army of hollow soldiers, their see-through bodies draped in layers of dusty snow, unquenched and frozen, forgotten prisoners of war.
Stillness is lain like a fine cloth over this little world- humans had abandoned here and whilst they have left everything, here now lies nothing.

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