This corridor it stretches on you see

This corridor, it stretches on, you see,

a muted beige, relentlessly.

Each door, a twin, no difference at all,

just numbers ticking down a silent wall.

The air, it hums, a low, recycled drone,

like something tired, left too long alone.

My steps, they echo, sharp and much too loud,

a single figure in a fading crowd.

I count the cracks, across the floor they creep,

like tiny veins, where secrets lie so deep.

Past the third door, then the fifth, I go,

and wonder where these quiet journeys flow.

Is someone waiting? Or am I just meant

to walk this path, on nothing ever bent?

Just this long silence, swallowing each sound,

until another matching door is found.