ennui on repeat

I am in stasis.
lying, substanceless
in the furrow of my brow.

we find ourselves
once again
embroidering a new
hung limply
until it dries.

ingesting mouthfuls
of sour milk
with nary a notice
while it soaks my
breakfast flakes.

stringencies of
New Life
force us to
unpeel the aging fruit

and toss the refuse
into the cauldron
with a resonant clang.

Thanks this morning go to the provocative seed words of Sylvia Plath and Margaret Atwood, my dark muses, from their poems “Ariel” and “The animals in that country“, respectively.

Really, friends, I’m not depressed. This is just where my poetry is this week.

Don’t worry.

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