Death's Little Brother
Death's little brother, Boredom,
carries no scythe or gown
but a pillow with which to smother
and a cup with which to drown.
As a man may choke on droplets,
so the mind may drown in time:
a minute leaves it gasping
from lack of the sublime.
And who will be our Sisyphus?
And who undoes the tomb
into which Death's young brother
can turn a quiet room?
And who will be our Sisyphus?
In miniature we die
from sip of grave and devil-hell,
slack jaw and glazing eye.
