Literary Absurdity.
Sitting on the breezeway.
Night time, again.
The lights are dancing
Overhead, frivolously,
Almost in a mantra
Of Solitude.
What ever I had left
To verbalize
Has already been said
A hundred times before,
In a million different ways.
My own trivialities
Consume and manifest me.
The solitary air
Only emphasizes
A languid soul.