Sorry This Is a Boring Poem, Or Conversation, Or Whatever

I start to initiate a conversation, written with myself, in the dark late November clouds, and it's quiet and still judgemental, just as always in the solitude of being socially obliged- Yet, this is a boring poem, or conversation, because no drama rears its ugly head and the decapitated head has already long fallen off rolling, rolling, rolling- But it'll be back! don't you worry your pretty little head off, this path must meet with physics and science and the obscene geometry that dictates the virile trajectory of relapse, but I just wanted to talk or write, or whatever.