Though you walk these empty halls
And watch the clock tick on the walls,
Though a third of the work is for you
At least it is something to do.
Long, long hours and thoughtless showers,
Wilting flowers and milk that sours.
A conversation with yourself.
Building a life on a bookshelf.
In a tale, the hero doesn't fail.
You grow frail when to no avail
You're never enough.
