Flat as a slow puncture,

left over the weekend,

brimming with ennui…

a fuck it mentality.


Every cycle a torture,

like dear old Sisyphus,

Only this rock will not roll,

and this clown is not droll.


I’m without me and within,

A tired old cliche,

My great expectations

as vacuous as young Pip’s.


My map was painted with

invisible ink,

I had a notion,

but now cannot think.


Dale ‘M’


2 thoughts on “FLAT

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