At twenty-four, his days are cold,
A canvas draped in black and gold,
Where colors fade, and dreams are few,
A life devoid of vibrant hue.
In office halls and crowded streets,
He wanders lost, his pulse retreats,
Success and love seem distant shores,
He stands alone on barren floors.
The world's a blur of stark contrasts,
In shades of gray, each moment passes,
Where fortunes favor others' claims,
And shadows dance in muted frames.
His solace found in bitter sips,
And smoke that drifts from weary lips,
A fleeting warmth in darkened hours,
A moment's peace in fleeting powers.
The steam of coffee, dark and deep,
A lullaby to restless sleep,
While cigarettes, like whispered dreams,
Offer solace in dim-lit schemes.
Yet as the days grow cold and wide,
He questions how he'll still abide,
For coffee's warmth and smoke's embrace,
Cannot forever fill the space.
At twenty-four, the world seems dim,
A symphony without a hymn,
Yet in the silence of his plight,
He seeks a spark within the night.
