Half-way Holiday Blues

[milo]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

yes, Tom, my old friend, you nailed it. The sonics are almost perfect and you capture nicely the boredom and the frustrating need to pack our hours full lest we lose them.

just a thought:

<script type="text/javascript" src="newaudioplayer.js"></script>


I can delete it later.

Hi milo,
Thanks for this but you have hoist on your own petard I suggest you give up writing poetry all together and just concentrate on reading my shite!
Seriously, though, a good reading.
Best,
Tom

with the amount of time I spend on my petard, it is a marvel I don't need a hoist!!