this place
burns me out
with wearisome
repetition
its suburban cliché
weighs heavy
on my doldrums
and I’m drowning
in an ocean
of sundays
I’ve gone native
in the great nocturnal
I’m flying solo
from now on
I better bail out
before I’m found out
I have deviated
from the pattern
of the flock
those dopes
are sheparded
by wolves
they are helpless
and enthralled
their decline
commenced sooner
than anticipated
they had assumed
they’d be given
more time
No comments:
Post a Comment