Stark and bland and beige and bare:
The rule applies, without, within —
That you can let the light flood in,
And still nobody quite be there
The nights are hard, then comes the day,
For truth is found where it’s not sought:
That love’s a thing that can’t be bought,
Or had much any other way
The same old windows, same old door,
But it is an ironic scene —
That one could be, in quarantine,
No lonelier than before
Online, I sold my emptiness,
But in return, I nothing got:
The right price for a worth of naught
Delivered to the wrong address