Monotony

A meditation on the everyday

Each day unfolds the same pale way,
the clock rehearses what to say.
The sun drifts in with practiced grace,
and finds me waiting in my place.

The coffee sighs, the chair receives,
the morning breathes its small routines.
The world repeats, a painted reel,
too faint to wound, too dull to heal.

The streets recall my measured tread,
their echoes hold what can’t be said.
I speak and listen only to air,
the silence fits, and doesn’t care.

Somewhere a storm forgets to start,
a pulse lies quiet in my heart.
Each evening folds the sky in grey,
and dreams are reruns of the day.

But still... in stillness, something yearns,
a spark that waits, or a page that turns.
For even sameness, cold and deep,
is watched by life that will not sleep.

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