my eyes surveying the corners of the room
wondering how Things exist inside the confined
small abode

whatelse do they do aside from
being dead
aside from being indifferent

they love to sleep in the silence
so tranquil,
deepest in sense

I wonder if they want to go outside
and play
together with the wind, trees and flowers

it's good to know that they exist
eventhough lifeless
and incapable to live

these mere objects,
i envy
their contentment

they stay awake
all the time
in the absence of time and memory

i sing to their souls
joyful but dead.

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