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The ELAN of BOREDOM
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The smooth path
the narrow path
the rough path
the razor's edge path
footing it out.
The small worm
of doubt gnawing
at my soul,
sipping as I go, from
the cup of bitterness.
Languishing away
ever so slowly,
the trifling weariness,
worn down by
this inner sadness.
The tyranny
of this thing
called instinct.
The tyranny
of these many
worldly desires.
The tyranny
of this mortal life.
Little by little
disappearing,
ever so slowly
it happens every day.
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[in the litzine-IMELOD + third prize in the USA]
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