I walk around my house aimless and confused
Looking for something to keep myself amused
But wonder still I do down the halls
While sand from The Hourglass falls.
Neither books nor reading can fix my boredom’s bleeding
And reflecting on my figure, I will not satisfy it with eating.
Perchance I should search for my evening cap
And retire to bed for an early afternoon nap.
But perhaps, in order to gain success
In my quiet quest to kill restlessness,
I should try to write through my woe
In a poem that The Hourglass would know.
And If those eternal sands, that fall and shift,
Shall not accept my humble gift,
Then cursed shall I be to meander still,
Trapped within my consternated will.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment