The ceiling fan spins lazy and slow

The ceiling fan spins, lazy and slow,

it spins like thoughts circling, stuck in the air.

The tea goes cold; the room feels low,

like it’s waiting for something, a moment laid bare.

Dust clings to the blades, a ghost in the light,

shadows hang heavy like tired sighs,

every turn is a whisper, lost to the night,

a reminder that stillness is where hope lies.

I’m here in the heat, with thoughts too loud,

watching as day creeps through yawning space.

The fan stirs nothing, just blends with the crowd,

a hushed companion in my personal race.