Dulcet Irritations

I sit in a position,

And listen,

To the schism of a dulcet tone as it makes its incision,

Sharp with its precision,

Yet drab,

And dry,

However peaceful,

And passive.

Like a thornless rose bush,

Drunk on joy,

Tranquil in its trodden delight.

It's the sun on a rainy day,

And the rain on a sunny day,

The moonlight on a misty night,

A playful stray at first being coy,

And the wait before your first push.

It's the apathetic interest on the results you spent hours waiting patiently for,

Like finding a sea cave minutes before you have to leave the shore,

An overcooked roast,

Unbuttered toast,

Brightly coloured and morose,

Everything just a little too close.

To me it's a show,

Watching someone deciding between watching or listening to grass grow.