Her Disillusionment


Upon a sigh,

she again rises

to sameness

while words uttered

spew from silent aches-


'Its grown so tiresome,

so tedious,

so very damn prosaic.'


-As she once again,

sets out upon a day,

already spent,

in its first few moments

of its awakening.


Resigned and relinquishing

she moves,


For what's the hurry

in rushing the pain?


It'll still be there-

lurking in her shadows,


and demanding

of her will.


Her lackadaisical mood,

in not the product

of a weakness,

but that of a strength,

she requires, to endure.


Nor 'tis it the effect

of this long-suffering state.

But more

the apparant result,

of her disillusionment.

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