Toner and Time

The last one shut the door,

a click that sealed the day.

Fluorescent tubes hum low,

light bleeding out to grey.

My own breath is too loud now,

a rasp in the dead air.

Then it starts.

The steady, rolling whir,

a mechanical sigh.

Paper feeds, a soft shush,

then the sharp click of dye.

It never stops.

This low, persistent grind,

a patient, alien sound,

while the world outside is blind

to this small, humming grave.

It keeps its own time.