This forty-watt bulb that powers my brain,
Appears overnight to have blown once again.
I’m running on vacant; my mind empty rooms;
The fairground replaced with just cold, empty tombs.
There’s a spiralling, porridge-grey liquid where once
There was colour. I’m reduced to the Arial fonts.
The world’s a repeat of the test-card. Each sound
Is a scrape. On such days I have generally found
That it’s best to drink coffee; let the hours roll by,
And just wait for the ennui to give up and die.

11 responses to “Ennui

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