Tired With Black & White

She holds her life in calloused hands
As she locks her apartment door—once, and again,
Then clasps her fingers towards her rib cage in retreat.

She moves alone through empty rooms
Towards nothing unusual and seats herself, with pain,
Upon the edge of an antique bed.

White, white walls surround her and inspire a tinge of comfort—
Her hands shake unrefined.

The clock, black clock, ticks on the wall,
With loud, aluminum clicks in two tones:
The first an aspiration, which the second proves empty.

She sits alone, wrapping herself in her own feeble self,
Surrounded by walls and aluminum clicks
That fade the memories of dancers in flowing, crimson dresses.

She addresses the ceiling:

“Lord, I’m tired.”