In dark rooms where silence flows like a river of ink

In dark rooms where silence flows like a river of ink, I sit alone, wrapped in the solitude of Monday mornings, While presidents speak of honor, culture, and dedication, And their words are echoes lost in the vastness of a gray sky. Sadness weighs on my soul like a shadow stretching over an empty field, My manliness suffocates me, stripping away any illusion of pride, As time slips through my fingers like the fine sand of an hourglass, And I feel understanding drifting away like a mirage in the hot desert. My glass empties, leaving me to contemplate the silent abyss of decisions, I must choose between the company of those who drink to soothe despair, Or seek out storekeepers who will never publish my unspoken poem, A poem unraveling like a forgotten dream on the edge of endless mornings. In this melancholy, my thoughts are birds flying toward the lost horizon, And with each beat of their wings, they leave behind unfulfilled desires and hopes, While I, in my dark room, listen to the silence whispering stories to me, Stories of days that will never come, of moments that remain suspended.