Midnight Comforts

The clock ticks softly, the kitchen's a glow,

metal lid cracks like a promise, though slow.

A can of soup, warmth cradled in hands,

a simple feast where solitude stands.

Steam rises gently, like whispers in air,

each spoonful a comfort, a balm for despair.

In the still of the night, when silence runs deep,

my soul finds solace, in solitude's keep.