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| same week, different day |
of watching the passing of dismal clouds,
losing my vision in frenzied blur of fog,
trickling down of droplets on window glass.
Day in, day out.
What would you call this dull ache,
of associating bleak skies with words,
taking notice obliviously as if a presage,
anticipating to be acknowledged and realised.
Day in, day out.
What would you call this unexpressed anguish,
of nothing that is left of us, you and I, or ever was,
misplacing everything I touch, never to be found again,
unriddling conundrums of this inevitable nothingness.
Day in, day out.
The place where I sit at work has this mundane view of sky, and the room is as good as empty every morning. I slip into poetic trance and often finding myself motivated to write. When I am away, I miss the place, the view. This poem being written on one of those days when it drizzled for hours, put away in my memory and relived days later (today). Just a vivid impression of a rainy day inscribed with figments of my fantasies...