4 insignificant Stanzas

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

The Constant Battle

Her back hurts, so she cannot rest,
And work is suffering these days;
She’s daily there, within a haze
Travailing, tired and depressed

But when she can, she breaks away;
She sits alone somewhere offsite,
And for one moment, doesn’t fight
The constant battle that’s today