my pen slumbers on the notebook,
my shoelaces snooze,
my windows yawn excruciatingly,
even the sparrows are bored
with the staccato of the incessant drizzle –
clouds mocking the soil,
diluting it patiently and turning it into a thinner (by the day)
raw material for god’s workshop.

my gaze,
wrinkled because of the constant damp,
travels slowly along the increasing shores
of the puddles in my yard,
analyzing the supreme poetry
of their kaleidoscopically changeful lacery –
and the mould between my lashes approves.

“you call this winter?!”
grunts the repiner inside me,
and i nod in response,
like a repetitive chorus.

there’s nothing
(seriously now, there can’t be anything)
more boring than this extended February mizzle.
it’s prolix, monotonous, dull, annoying, irksome…
and the sparrows just sit there,
on the wires beneath my eaves,
huddling and dozing and completely ignoring
my lonesomeness.


© Liliana Negoi

2 Responses to “pointlessness”
  1. You’ve captured the feeling in this perfectly and shared it so magically that I can feel the dampness of day dripping with dreariness. Well penned, poet.

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