In endless hours washed with boredom I
Have spent an undistinguished, lazy life.
The shapeless clouds that waft across the sky
Sliced at the bottom with a butter knife
Have more direction than my empty days,
In which each evening is a pointless choice
Between undifferentiated ways
Of doing nothing. If I have a voice,
It's very quiet, and quite well drowned out
By day to day concerns that lazily
Slide by my eyes. I have no time for doubt
And no excitement to encourage me
To do, or act, declare, express, or say
A single thing. It's easier this way.
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