A torpor deep, a leaden weight, That settles heavily, seals your fate. No urgent call, no vibrant hue, Just muted grays that seep on through. The clock ticks by, a distant chime, Lost in the vast expanse of time. A task begins, lies half undone, Beneath the gaze of a setting sun. The mind, a field left fallow, bare, No striving thought takes root down there. A comfortable, dull content, On energy and effort spent. The world may rush, a hurried pace, But sloth finds solace in this space. A yielding to the easy way, Postponing to a future day. Opportunities drift and fade, No willing hand is ever made To grasp the chance, to seize the prize, Behind the half-closed, listless eyes. A stagnant pool, where dreams descend, And aspirations meet their end. The spirit sleeps, a muffled sigh, Content to simply drift on by.