Hope just left me
I am in tears
Waiting for the Angel of death
Not yet
Waiting for the old and grey life
No matter how hard I try
It leads nowhere
Leads not to my love
Leads not to my dream
It leads to sorrow
It leads to despair
Pointless days
Pointless mornings
The day has died
The night has come
Restless I can be
No comfort will come
Heave a sigh
Nothing else
Empty pockets
Empty life
No chocolate
No coffee
Just vegetables and some rice
Have some water
Unsatisfying!
Soap oats!
Scrub the scrubber on me
Dead skin out
Feels a bit lighter
Rinse the soap
Dry towel, dry me
Late night
Good Night
Rest my soul
This is a very stark as well as emotionally poignant work. This would work very well in other formats,for instance as the interior monologue of a character in a radio play or a novel. There are echoes and traces of Harold Pinter in this poem which I think qualifies as an expression of ” ennui” ?
Thanks for reading and thanks for the comment. If only I can write as good as Harold Pinter and win a Nobel Prize. Nay! Probably not.
just lovely work,the images of hopelessness leave a fine imprint