Night.
With just enough cold to shiver from your soul
To your fingertips.

As a solution, the heater is on,
And the room morphs into an unwelcome sauna,
It's fake warmth a slap on the exhausted skin.

Night marches on,
Nearly done.
She desperately searches for meaning and substance,
Before all the candles snuff out.

Defeated and unnoticed, she sulks to bed,
Not knowing completely why.
What is it about this day that has some unofficial standard
That needs to be met?

Today is like any other today.
And tomorrow--the expectations will still be present
Like a tower of dishes that have been ignored.

Who makes the rules?
I would like a word.