The more air I breathe
as I watch the tube
as I read Tolstoy
and
as I ponder Carroll’s carcass
the more bored I become
with the air as its forced
into my lungs.
I must wonder
where the boredom
began.
Days elapsed into years
and my brain’s synapses
lacked creative lubrication.
I have surmised
that the first gasp
of air I breathed
that’s when the boredom
started.
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