I keep tapping my foot
Keep walking back and forth
And looking out the window
The minutes become hours
The hours become days, weeks, years
And every day I talk to myself a bit louder

There's dust there at the windowsill
It has a print of my hand on it
Maybe from last year
It was a full moon's night I think
I must have stood there for over an hour
Not because I was lonely
But because in the moonlight
I become lost to time

There are few such things left now
The nights are long and cold
And there are no more breezes
Just howling winds
My heart has become a desert
So has my life

I am no longer an optimist
Or a pessimist
I'm just a man walking through life
Through imagery that never changes
So I barely even raise my eyes
All the while wondering
Is this all there is?
A. Swantalala