This is the Year
by Sarah Singh
The ennui of the moment dissolved me for the day,
The sinking weariness that killed me,
ceased to melt away.
Monoton rode past me every minute,
dressed to the very shimmers’ limit, for he was:
Clad in veil, gemmed afghans,
bangles adorned his wrists.
The smug grin flew from end to end,
finished in a nasty twist.
Monoton sneered at me to canter past on his mangy little mare,
And cared as little for me as of a fly,
so stayed not to see my fare.
But again he returned, after I cried,
and smirked at me to be just as snide;
I was stuck in a circle of petty stinging quarrels,
the only console was a stack of books,
a shelf of books,
a room of books,
They were my life and soul.
The circle was never- ending,
with Monoton chasing me and pelting I with taunts.
Until it did end,
and Monoton died.