(From about a year ago. Oh, how time can change our attitude.)
When boredom sets in
I grind the wheel,
sharpen the blade.
A slice into misery
cleanses the soul of food gone bad.
Cold showers only waken the dead.
Random good thoughts spill
like what is the bird thinking
perched outside my window?
I find myself wishing to set sail
and dream of doing,
while I remove my wings so frail.
It is a slow morning
that i watch the old dog pant
as the embroiled sun bakes the ground.
Did I sell my soul too
afraid to drink the water
and recoil at the company in town?