The Weight of Nothing Happening

Sitting still as raindrops race down glass,

with nowhere to go, I watch the clouds cry.

A weekend spent sprawled, my thoughts like quicksand,

where time drips like honey, too thick, too shy.

I search for meaning in the heaviness held,

a single raindrop finds its way to the street,

just one drop, nothing more, a story retelled,

while silence envelops, concrete under my feet.

Here in the stillness, the weight is my own,

a spectrum of choices draped over my skin.

Each minute like lead, yet nothing is shown,

in this grand dance of life, I find no spin.