monolith.

This isn't a specific space, a particular place, an exact time.

It's the abyss that fills this indistinguishable cavity.

lackluster.

the lament can hardly be characterized as a cause

or as, causing,

the constant disillusionment

of the colour of the walls,

or the transaction of salutations.

the mechanical ploy of love.

the automated existence can be a cogent argument

for what, are, actual desires.

and what is,

actually, existing.

the meticulous procedure,

of the lid opening to expose the iris

is laborious enough

to make one give up.

the persistence.
the quest to fill the abyss, the cavity

with something, one could assume, 

is more then irresolute gesture,
in whichever direction.