The INSOLENT hands of the clock
are shadily employed by boredom itself
Each tick is a moment spent examining the air
each tock is the scream of a perishing elf
Dormant, idle, indolent, motionless
nails tap in deep irritation
delay the loyal exhale to hasten excitement
all stranded, abandoned in this silent, dull nation
Walls and the ceiling stare so blankly
feet initiate a twitchy, forced dance
eyelids fall, and fall, and SNAP to attention
no phenomenon worth a nod or glance
I'd swear it to my God and Lord
that Satan haunts a mind that's bored
YOU ARE READING
Slower than Molasses
PoetryA poem about being incredibly bored. Specifically at work.