She sits in boredom’s doorway;
Shrugged trunk, numb skull, bowel movements
In its room, whilst her feet are free to
Feel the breeze of pursuits blowing by, and her
Hands, on her knees, plead for interests
To enter.
But activity has heard of such places,
And paces by, and wonder, after glancing at her
Brow, wanders on with the wow
Factor of the unknown hurriedly pulled along
By a lead, never needing to be released
Upon entropy.
Her drum of fingers numbs the skin
Under eroding clothes until it touches home and
Wears to bone; crumbling in daily
Clouds without the use of movement, as the
Sky peels back and forth revealing more
Disorder.
And ever spreads from one day to
The next and drags, so that when she looks back
There’s such a lack of instances
That she winces at the world and its emptiness,
Pushing back her chair until her threshold
Disappears.
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