I think this poem is suffering from depression...
There are no paintings, no pictures
on these stark grey walls
in this room with empty chairs
around an empty table.
The silver lamps, if lit
would only illuminate the emptiness.
The only colour visible
comes from the plant in the corner
that does not share my breath.
The dark telepohne
stands out on a blank surface,
it draws me in.
I feel I should fill the emptiness
with words.
Put the reciever to my ear,
the dial tone rings steady,
pressures me,
to push buttons, to connect.
Only there is no one to call.