Thursday, May 13, 2021

Poem a Day 13

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.

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