The ghost of inspiration touches briefly, slips away before daylight can bring it to fruition. Humdrum begins with the first thought the day brings, continuing on as people talk, listen, forget, repeat.
The clock suffers, laborious
It’s the same clock, seeing the same thing
behind every damned door,
in every damned life
Walking into the night with nothing new
Slipping into the a.m.,
Watching us fall
hitting a pillow
That ghost of inspiration
born out of languid, probing, Bukowski-echoing thoughts
doesn’t dare show face again,
until the time when the darkness behind our eyelids
resembles the one outside
When the words picked up here and there amidst the humdrum
finally unravel into sentences,
Emboldened by post-midnight’s utter silence
It sometimes strikes just before unconsciousness
Padding out silently afterward,
making no difference to an already silent world.

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