Weary and sluggish with apathy and
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disinterest, I nervously reflect and
My thoughts--thick and heavy like
molasses--churn and swirl in and out of my
head and spill against the background of
dead silence of my apartment living room.
They are in constant motion, while I sit in
the living room mute and gagged and bound
with the world-weariness of a lifetime and
stare blankly into empty space by looking
Even the furnishings around me defer to
my sullen mood. Not saying a word and
bowing their heads, they hold their tongues
and keep their thoughts to themselves out
of respect and deference for my silent and
otherwise always on and hyper-gregarious,
for once regards my sullenness and apathy
with its own.
I sit thusó
but in the sympathetic company of my
furniture and belongings.
They whisper to me of a time when I was
sinful and wanton and remind me of the
need for redemption.
I remember, and take heed by repenting.
By doing so, I have avoided reaping and
a harvest of sins.
"Good verse, like art, is difficult."
--ngoc m. nguyen, aka "poembender"