Atrophy

Most days I don’t shriek or shudder,

I don’t nervously let my fingers ponder,

Like they have a mind of their own.

I don’t sit up straight, I don’t comb my hair,

I let my spine disfigure,

Curve like a cave, scribbled,

Yet futile.

My hair, they don’t sing,

They don’t sing most days,

To the touch of the trivial sunlight.

I reek of stale wisdom,

Of empty conversations,

Of Monday afternoons spent carelessly meandering,

Most days. 

Most days take years to pass,

While the years,

They take a second.