Stagnation,
her life is
stale.
Foul from
not moving.
She’s killed
her desire,
named it an irrational
appetite.
Marked by
dull uniformity
her days are
full of
wearisome constancy.
She exists
in a world
she us not
aware of.
Her volatile
spirit
is covered
with a thick
blanket of ordinary
and she no
longer strives
to kick free
of the covers.
She’s
reached the end of
the road
without realizing.
Or without
caring.
And it only
takes
one more
step.
Forward or
back.