All the doors have closed.
Kept inside, the clutter piles.
Longingly gazing out the windows,
Dreaming, of existing for miles.
All the lights have dimmed.
Even the stars, have lost their brilliance.
The cloak of a darkening whim,
Defeats the will for resilience.
All the sounds have muted.
The once roaring symphony of hope,
Continues, as a hum polluted.
Muffled, can yet it stir a misanthrope?
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