Segments of dun-coloured time.
A casual, wayward glance.
Piling up of unwritten poems.
Not picking up the chance.
Peeling off the calendar,
just because I should.
Walking down least resistance,
just because I could.
Insipid storytelling.
Sporadic laughs at sordid events.
Insincere attempts unyielding.
No surprises at consequence.
Driving down to the city,
because it’s a Monday chore.
Not picking up a newspaper
because there’s no meaning left anymore.
Unintentional witticisms.
Skimming while reading a book.
Languishing in transits.
Letting go of a crook.
Waking up to another day,
just because you couldn’t die.
There is dispassionate living,
in this lackadaisical life.
amarllyis 
Its true what the greats say. Poetry is a mouth. It speaks by itself. But only when the poet infuses it with enough soul can it speak. Such a simple theme, yet, so profound!
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