Stub: Successor Lane, Ancestral Burden

The record is utterly bare,
With nothing but digital air.
We printed the form,
To weather the storm,
And left it to quietly tear.

A progress report in the hall, Demands nothing written at all. The validation is blank, In a windowless bank, Where the shadows of negligence fall.

The vacancy never will close, As the dust on the document grows. The waiting is grim, In the corridor dim, And silence incessantly flows.