Sonnet 8

Routine's terror!

I read my over articulate day,
turgidly written in thin pencil scrawl.
Each arduous line is “a step” they say,
“to somewhere”, with a slow, insipid drawl.

All these masters of the future do lie;
a mere encounter with their gaze bears all:
Glazed, forbearing; their very breaths belie
what they profess routinely as they crawl.

But still, I can’t discount the world’s device;
structure procures the cure to chaos here.
Capricious living will never suffice,
though convention is the weightiest tear.

I will thus look on with passionate strain,
and pledge that all time’s vacancies shall gain.