First,
I trace the new rules, quiet and keen
Whispers caught where the page stays unseen.

To the museum's hush where pink and yellows bleed,
Winding through narrow dark,
Where thoughts are freed.

Then home was third, holds the order to not forget,
A stillness folding, both strange and met.

Public lounge hums with mates' low tune,
Voices weaving tight in shadowed commune.

And now I lay having seen it all,

In darkness and shadows I question the whole,

For there is no hope nor any spark,
but always trust the light's opposite mark.