Slower Than Molasses

The INSOLENT hands of the clock

are shadily employed by boredom itself

Each tick is a moment spent examining the air

each tock is the scream of a perishing elf

Dormant, idle, indolent, motionless

nails tap in deep irritation

delay the loyal exhale to hasten excitement

all stranded, abandoned in this silent, dull nation

Walls and the ceiling stare so blankly

feet initiate a twitchy, forced dance

eyelids fall, and fall, and SNAP to attention

no phenomenon worth a nod or glance

I'd swear it to my God and Lord

that Satan haunts a mind that's bored


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