Discontent surrounds me like a cloud
Upon a mountaintop: a boring simile.
Yet all about me is a constant crowd
Of just such phrases effervescently
Hovering. And so it daily goes:
My plain quotidian is bored and dull,
Lit only by the red discordant glows
Of unoriginality. I mull
My life and pondering, decide
I'll do something; then straight away it seems
A useless chore I cannot but deride
Eclipsed by other unimportant schemes.
So tell me, in this fogbank of malaise
Why I am bright in your ecstatic praise?
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