Complacency

Complacency is non-progress; the fading bronze of rust spreading across abandon scrap metal

It feels like moss, slowly crawling across your unmoving skin; as it covers a planted stone

It emits sounds, sounds like the steady, unchanging sound of white noise; Oblivion

It beckons tastes; the staleness of a flattened soda, the bitterness of a dry mouth at dawn

It reeks of the moldiness of an ancient leather-bound novel

It looks as though it has sat, like an empty wardrobe, collected with dust, having gone a hundred years without renovation or renewal