adventures in dysthymia

Monday, April 30, 2018

Hurry, a poem

Hurry

I'm not the sort to saunter nor amble,
to aimlessly stroll nor even to ramble;
I'll always hurry to go nowhere
and never stay once I get there.

I'm easily bored, I must admit,
not at all inclined to sit,
to shoot the breeze, to watch the stars,
to count the headlights of passing cars,

not even when I'm next to you—
I shouldn't say that but it's true.
There's someplace else I ought to be;
You wonder where? Don't ask me.

Perhaps I'll know when I arrive,
perhaps I can no more than strive
and never find the place I'm bound.
Perhaps that place can not be found.

Stephen Brooke ©2018

Pretty much a quick throwaway, facile enough but without much depth. I thought it might be humorous when I started but that didn't work out.

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