Sun Rays on Sundays
Monotone, far from chrome, yet it fills my home.
The light is grey or it is orange.
Orange is unnatural.
Grey is dull, washed, the day, a lull
Meaningless music drowns itself into white noise, while my eyes slow to a poise.
Fixated.
A stack of books, motionless ornaments, a glass of water warping light around it, distorting the image it obstructs.
Time persists, yet it drags,
drags me down,
Of course I'm exaggerating,
that doesn't stop me from procrastinating.
-Oliver Purnell
YOU ARE READING
A Prolific Poem Anthology
Poetry15 poems written across almost 2 years with a wide variety of style and emotion. Each poem is unique and were written at points across these two years where I felt enough emotion to condense and organise into poems good enough for people to enjoy an...
