The ticking clock

Sweats in anticipation

Twists up it’s gears

And fiddles it’s frame, just right.

The only way to know

Is to go through the journey.

The bookshelves murmer

Gossiping sounds of

Shuffling pages

Hiding straight inside their place

The only way to find

Is to search in the wrong places.

The windows

Look into their reflection

Wondering who will close them

Shut.

The only way to be

Is to find the answer for

Yourself.

The chair swivels

In anxiety.

Making scars on the floor.

Looking for it’s desk.

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