Ennui

The ballast of our Thursday afternoon in the countryside lays distilled in your face. Yawning like a cow in pasture eating sweet grass your words flatten the moment. Having no capacity of knowing what you might see in an endless sky you have seemingly died from boredom. Your small dreams have squandered the butterfly’s wings pathetically flapping ‘us’ into a Prantic trance, We lay like sleeping rabbits under an erroneous sun that does not rise above the numbness of your wintering heart. Gridlocked like a dog’s nose to the ground on the scent of somewhere on a wall of many stains, you hunt the missing birds sitting on rainbows just out of reach, then bait your hook to lure in the cold silver fish reflected in diluted ponds of your resentment. I wait…for a word never to be spoken while you set your watch tightly winding clock hands that spin in circles within your eyes on a face of numbers that never leaves its constant bemusement of wilted flowers.