Night

The page is smooth

An old engine wheezes back to life

The brush demands a masterpiece from dried paint

The eyelids are heavy and weightless

It fears absence

What does it do when it forgets?

He reminds himself to call them

The back is burdened yet

All faces are now static

All noise is unknown music;

May be it's the other way around.

The hand tries to write poetry,

All the while Sisyphus rolls on his boulder

Tomorrow is coming

The light from across the street is starting to dim