Empty Chairs

Plastic chairs line the room,

under flickering lights that hum

like a tired machine

trying not to stop.

The clock ticks — slow, heavy,

each second stretching thin

between sterile walls,

a waiting room frozen in gray.

My name is not called.

The air thickens,

a leaden stillness folding

around every breath,

a quiet anchor dropping deep

into the hollow of waiting.

Nothing shifts, nothing moves,

just the weight of stillness

pressing down, relentless,

a slow gravity of time

held hostage in the pause.