Dead Sunday Night

Late night.
Pale, thin silence.
Not one comfortable soul
to hear or see.

One o'clock AM.
My corpse still lies.
I feel
the wail of the air conditioner;
the creaks of the laundry;
one single lamplight
with a
cold, orange bulb
laying outside
in the absence of life.

It was another dead Sunday night;
the echoes of thoughts
bounced through the corridors.
They begged to the walls;
they begged to somebody.
Their cries were not answered;
and my corpse kept waiting
until the morning came.

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