A Sonnet of Supreme and Splendid Boredom
O cruelest clock, thou sluggish turtle beast,
Thy seconds plod like snails in sticky glue.
My yawns, like thunder, never seem to cease,
While ceilings whisper, “There is naught to do.”
The curtains droop in sympathetic pain,
The sofa sighs, “I too am uninspired.”
A lonely dust mote twirls around my brain,
Its graceful waltz both mocked and yet admired.
I’ve counted socks, then counted them again,
I’ve stared at toast until it seemed profound.
I’ve named each crack upon my windowpane,
And held debates with chairs that made no sound.
Yet boredom, strange, can hatch the oddest schemes—
Perhaps I’ll juggle noodles… or chase dreams.